


Quiet Tenderness

by VivatMusa



Category: Harvest Moon: A Wonderful Life
Genre: Chronology, F/M, Friendship, slow-romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 10:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 21,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3444482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VivatMusa/pseuds/VivatMusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the old bachelor who had long since given up on the dream of romance. She was the young woman who had been foisted with the truth that hearts burned more than they warmed. When these opposites are ready to give up on love, they learn that love can be sown from the softest of words, the subtlest of gestures, and the tenderness of two hearts slowly, quietly, knitting together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost Melodies

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A Harvest Moon fanfiction story

Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon or its characters.

Quiet Tenderness is a challenge for myself to clearly express a scene with only a half a page to two, at the most, to work with. Wish me luck!

I was planning on publishing this once a few more chapters were ready, but I just finished a new book and I HAD to print something to get over my excitement. Since this was more or less finished, I figured why not? Also, this is my first time writing in present tense, so if you see any errors, feel free to tell me and I'll fix them up! Thanks!

Hope you enjoy this, and thanks for reading!  
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Quiet Tenderness  
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A Harvest Moon fanfiction story

Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon or its characters.  
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The pitter-patters of raindrops are the chorus.

The thuds of the boot are the tempo.

The unspoken words the lyrics.

Together, they design a song that resonates from deep in the earth, stirring up memories that linger like dust particles in the air. The notes are low and sweet and wistful of days of a younger time, with a younger man. And just for a moment, an aged bartender changes back into that man, a person he had not seen in the mirror for many tiring years. A person whose future had seemed as endless as the rolling tides. That is the gift of music: the chance to recreate a time where opportunities could be found as easily as lucky pennies.

Then a shout slashes through the rain. The spell shatters.

The clock skips forward by decades: smooth and sinewy hands become etched with deep lines and calluses; the luster of a polished guitar becomes coated with dust. The boot stops drumming on the floor. His fingers press against the guitar strings, quivering before falling silent. Only the rain and his beating heart dare to make any noise as he leans forward, listening.

The shout comes again, audible even from inside the bar. Griffin knows that sound. The memory is as clear as if it had happened yesterday, rather than a lifetime of winters ago. It takes everything for Griffin to stay seated and think. Maybe it is the alcohol deceiving his aging mind. That belief dies when Griffin looks down and sees the uncorked-and untouched-wine bottle next to his barstool.

In the second it had taken to confirm his lack of drunkenness, the sound changes. This time it no longer echoes with memories. It is different and real, tinged with real sorrow.

Both the barstool and his joints creak when Griffin stands, leaning his guitar against the wall. He crosses the room in two strides and throws open the door. A shaft of light spills out from the bar at the same time the cold rushes in, nipping at his cheeks. Suddenly Griffin wishes he had grabbed his jacket before he had stepped outside. Rain drums on the awning overhead. The little bit of cover does nothing to prevent his boots from becoming speckled with black drops.

His eyebrows furrow as he peers through the downpour, but with only the watery light from the lanterns, he can make out nothing. He shakes his head, ready to go back inside and wash away his delusions with wine, when a flash of green shoots out from the darkness.

A choked noise rumbles in his throat as he jumps back. His brain calms down before his heartbeat does, and he realizes the green he had seen are actually a pair of eyes. Even in the middle of the night they sparkle as clearly as the sea. The face they are set in is pale and almost perfectly heart-shaped, adorned with the delicate features of a woman. And a very wet one, at that.

Griffin clears his throat, but before any words could come, a voice as sweet and high as a child's drifted from the stranger. "E-e-excuse me," she stutters, lips trembling with cold. "I d-d-don't mean to cause any t-trouble, but my b-b-boyfriend—" The woman casts her eyes downward. Even in heels she barely comes to his chest. With her head tilted, Griffin could see her locks of hair, golden despite its wetness, streaking down a sweater that had no business being worn in this weather. The thin material clings to her petite, shivering frame. Just a few minutes outside and he could already feel his bones aching with cold. Griffin could only imagine how she must feel.

"He's not…c-c-coming." She let her words fade with a puff of fog. The woman remains silent, but words are no longer required. Griffin may be an old bachelor, but he does remember enough to fill in the blanks. He fumbles for words to say, but they are blocked by the questions racing through his mind. Where had this woman come from? She is certainly a stranger to Forget-Me-Not Valley, and although it was not uncommon for the natives to travel to the city for work or friends, the reverse rarely occurred. The only visitors that come to such a small town are from the equally humble Mineral Town. Griffin did not recognize her from there anymore than from Forget-Me-Not.

Any thoughts of turning the woman away did not last more than a second. She is at a bar and Griffin is a bartender. And it is a bartender's duty to lend a soothing drink and a listening ear, even when the sign out front reads closed. Griffin opens the door wider, and clears his throat again. "It looks like you could use a hot drink, ma'am. It's awfully cold out there."

The woman's lips part in surprise in the way one unused to small-town hospitality would when confronted with it.

"You would-you would really let me inside?" she says.

"Would be a disgrace if I didn't," Griffin chuckles.

The woman hesitates just for a moment before whispering, "Thank you. Thank you so much."

Griffin simply tilts his head like a gentleman as she steps inside.  
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New chapters may come later than expected. My plan is to write until a good chunk is completed, and update when I have a few chapters lined up so I know people aren't waiting around like they are for some of my other stories. (I'm working on it, honestly!). 

Anyways, thanks for reading, and reviews are always much appreciated!


	2. The Muffin Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that I would wait to post until the majority of this story was written, so no one's left waiting for an update, (though technically I've already finished the outline) but I'm bending the rule slightly. I'm in the need for something uplifting, so I'm publishing this chapter early. It may not be the most exciting installment, but it is necessary!
> 
> Quick comment about the title: you do not know how tempted I was to name this story after Michael Bublé's song, "Try A Little Tenderness

A suede jacket had been retrieved and wrapped around the woman's shoulders. More than once she had tried to squirm out of it, saying she didn't want her wet hair to drip, but Griffin reassured her a bit of water won't hurt it none. The fabric tents around her small frame and the fringes brush her shins. Once she had teetered onto a bar stool, Griffin asks if she would care for a drink. Neither one mentions the puddle growing on the floorboards behind her seat.

He rummages through the cupboards in the interior of the bar. "I got some tea, milk, hot chocolate…"

"Hot chocolate would be nice."

Griffin tries to hide his relief. He doesn't know what he would have done if she had asked for a cocktail. If Ruby had found out he had given her alcohol, she would no doubt scold him for "taking advantage of a young girl"—disregarding the fact that serving drinks is his profession. He sets the milk and chocolate powder on the counter.

"Whipped cream?"

"Oh, yes, please! And sprinkles, too, if you have some."

He pauses for a second before reaching under the cupboard where he keeps rainbow sprinkles for the local kids when they sneak in for milkshakes. He adds this on the counter next to the cocoa and milk, and then reaches for a mug. Soon the woman is warming her palms against the steaming drink, piled with a cloud of whipped cream and sprinkles. She had to push up about half the length of the jacket's sleeves just to free her hands. The oversized garment, plus something in the way her mops of blonde hair are plastered to her face, make her look like a child. A rosiness flows back into her cheeks. Her shudders subside.

"Thank you. The hot chocolate is wonderful."

Griffin tilts his head in acknowledgement, leaning his hands on the counter. The drip-drops of water from her hair are seconds slower than the patter of rain outside. As she sips her drink, he notices that on one of her fingers is a dark blemish, like the type he sees on Ruby whenever she changes her rings.

Strings of remarks run through his head, but none seem quite right to say to a stranger he'd found in the rain outside his front door. Small talk is a second language to Griffin; years of tending the bar had taught him how to keep conversations flowing and set people at ease after a stressful day of work. And yet Griffin feels like he is fumbling for the words of a song.

He clears his throat, and suddenly finds it dry when her green eyes flit up to him. A heat rises to his face. Then he mentally cusses himself for forgetting the basics. How his mama would have been put to shame.

"You can call me Griffin, if you'd like, ma'am."

"Griffin." She smiles, and dimples like the impressions of a baby's fingertips surface on her cheeks. "It's nice to meet you. My name's Muffy."

He raises a brow. "Isn't that short for muffin?"

"I hadn't thought of it that way before, but I guess you're right. My mama named me after my auntie's cat. It's cute, don't you think?"

"That it is, Muffy."


	3. Moonbow

Moonbow

Earlier at the bar when Griffin had asked her if she had a place to stay for the night, she had glanced down at her half-empty cup of cocoa without a word. He had "hmm-ed," his fingers tapping on the counter. His taps abruptly changed to a rap on the wood, the deciding blow of a judge's mallet. He beckoned to her. "Follow me."

Moments later Griffin is pushing open the trap door to the attic. "It isn't much," he says, "But it's yours for however long you want it."

Muffy climbs the attic ladder once he's in the room. When she is at the top rung Griffin offers his hand, pulling her up so she stands beside him. "Thank you," she says as she smoothed out her dress. "You don't know what a help this is."

"Well, it feels like a crime to let this room go to waste because I don't have use for it." He gives a low whistle and straightens his back, only to bump his head on the ceiling, which they quickly realize is high enough for Muffy to stand straight but not the six-foot bartender. "Among other reasons," he chuckles ruefully. "I wish I could've cleaned up some so you didn't have to see it like this."

Muffy takes in the room for a handful of seconds before whirling around and beaming at Griffin. "This will do perfectly! Thank you again!"

"Oh. You're welcome." Griffin scratches the end of his nose. A silence follows, as neither of them knows where to go from there. He clears his throat. "Right. Well, I'll let you...get settled then. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

Muffy waits until his footsteps are clunking on the floor below before she releases the breath she had been holding. She draws a handkerchief from her pocket, and swipes the dust coating the closest piece of furniture—a wardrobe with peeling finish. The white handkerchief is brown when she lifts it.

Tucking the square fabric away, she takes her time surveying the small room. Along with the wardrobe, it houses only an iron-rod bed with a mattress just as dusty, and an uncurtained window so grimy she can't see out. She sniffs; the air is stale and itches her nose.

Muffy grins.

Her boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, she corrects herself—had refused to let her decorate the apartment where they had lived together. He didn't want it to be too "girly" when his friends came over. The boyfriend before him had set the same rule, and the one before him preached that worldly possessions only weighed the soul down.

Muffy never had a place entirely to herself before, not even when she was a child toting around an overstuffed suitcase as she traveled with her mama from theatre to theatre. Her mind is already racing with the decorating possibilities. A cozy armchair could go in that corner, and wouldn't a vase of moondrop flowers look simply charming on that windowsill? She bites her lip to stop from shuddering at the cobwebs hanging in the corners of the ceiling. Those would be the first to go.

The water-stained floorboards creak as Molly treads lightly to the window. By the time she manages to unhook the stiff latch her hands are stained with rust. She swings open the window, and a blast of brisk air kisses her cheeks. Her breath escapes as a puff when she looks out. The rain has passed and had left behind a thick aroma of earth that she had never been exposed to in the city. The night is black with not even the stars to accompany the full moon. A white arc hovers above it like a halo. Muffy remembers a boyfriend who had told her about moonbows, a type of rainbow that can be viewed only at night. Its glimmer is softer, subtler than its cousin's spectrum of colors, but against the onyx night sky it is more breathtaking than any rainbow.

Muffy shivers but doesn't move to button her sweater. She does not know how long she stands leaning on the sill, one hand pressed against her cheek, but by the time she closes the window she feels as if all her worries had been absorbed and taken away by the moonbow as it fades into the night.


	4. Sunny-Side Up

Sunny-Side Up

Muffy had just taken the pan off the heat when the door crashes open. Griffin stumbles into the kitchen, a blue robe tied hastily around his waist. He looks as if he had just scrambled out of bed; his feet are sliding out of their slippers and loose strands of hair are dangling out of his messy ponytail and in his face.

"What's wrong? What's burning?" he barks, the hoarseness in his voice jarring with his quiet demeanor. Muffy jumps.

"Nothing! I was just…cooking…breakfast." She lifts the pan and tilts it so he can see. Bacon sizzles inside. Extra crispy.

Griffin blinks. "Oh."

Muffy clears her throat delicately, dropping her gaze to the floor. Griffin's eyes fall to his torso; the robe hangs open with all of his chest-hair glory on display. "Oh."

It is uncertain who's blushing harder as Griffin reties his robe, while Muffy busies herself with taking down plates. Unlike the attic, the kitchen is built for the tall and she has to stretch on her tiptoes to reach the cabinet. Already too embarrassed she bites her lip, stopping before she can ask Griffin for help. Only then does she realize just how close and cramped the kitchen walls are even with its high ceiling. She can hear the rustling as Griffin pulls tight on the knot. No need to cause future… predicaments.

"Why don't you take a seat?" she says, finally with plates in hand.

Muffy doesn't turn around until she hears the scrape of the chair. She arranges a place setting and a glass of water in front of him and serves the bacon. "I hope you like yours well-done. How do you prefer your eggs?"

Griffin pokes at the shriveled strip of bacon with his fork. It snaps in two, brittle as charcoal. "Runny."

"Okay. Sunny Side-Up it is."

She twirls around and she cracks an egg on the edge of the pan. When he's sure her back is to him, Griffin steels his stomach and shoves half of the bacon strips in his mouth. They're crunchier than gravel. Maybe if he finishes quickly enough she won't catch his grimace. Bacon can be difficult, but anyone can cook—"

"Eggs are done!" Muffy chirps. He almost sighs in relief when he sees they are white and sunny at the center, with no crispy edges and only a few white chips. A dark coppery powder dusts the top. Some sort of pepper, maybe? Since when did he buy pepper?

Muffy hums as she slides two eggs onto his plate, then onto hers, before returning the pan to the stovetop. She slips into her seat across from him. Griffin smiles, takes a bite—and freezes. His eyes are watering when they glance down at his innocent-looking eggs, then up to Muffy's emerald eyes shining with pride. He swallows. It doesn't go down without a fight.

"These are very…seasoned. Did you add some type of spice?"

"Mmm-hmm. Just a spoonful or two of cayenne pepper. My mama used to add some all the time for that little kick." She holds her thumb and index finger an inch apart and winks. "Do you like it?"

Muffy bats those eyelashes again, and Griffin can only nod and scoop up another bite. He may need a glass of water. Or three. Too intent watching her meal being eaten Muffy forgets her own food and leaves her plate untouched. When he had finished his first egg (and drained his second glass), he rubs his mouth with his napkin, wiping away excess russet powder from his lips.

"This is real kind of you, but you didn't have to worry yourself none. I've fended for myself for this long."

"Oh, don't be silly. It's my way of thanking you for letting me stay. No one in the city would have done that." The lightheartedness in her expression hardens as she sets her chin. "But I am not a charity case. If you let me stay, I can help out at the bar. I don't mind hard work."

"Are you over twenty one?"

"Since last summer."

"Have you worked at a bar before?"

"No, but I did have a job at a restaurant. How different can it be?"

Griffin pales. "Were you the cook?"

"A waitress."

His shoulders relax. "Good. That's good."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well…" Griffin shifts in his chair, not looking at his plate. "It's good because…you couldn't work as a cook since I only serve drinks, not food."

"That's alright. I may not have much experience at mixing drinks, but I'm a fast learner."

"…Alright then."

"Does that mean…I have the job?"

"I reckon so. You can start tonight, if you like."

"That—that would be perfect! Thank you!" A little squeal slips out as she claps her hands. "I was so nervous you wouldn't say yes. I'll work very hard, sir!"

"Just Griffin is fine."

With a beam on her face, she swiftly scoops up the eggs into her mouth. Her eyes pop. A hand flies to her mouth; only a glance at Griffin, a reminder of her manners, keeps her from spitting the mouthful out into her napkin. Tears gather at the corner of her eyes when she finally manages to swallow. Griffin passes her the glass of water and she gulps it down. When the glass is drained she dabs a napkin to her lips.

"You ate…that? Oh, gosh, how embarrassing! I'm so sorry!" Still holding up her napkin she ducks her head, shaking her golden ringlets. "How embarrassing!"

Grifffin does what she least expects: he laughs—booming in the small room. She slowly lowers her hands and stares at him as he throws his head back and lets loose what can only be described as a guffaw. Again he defies first impressions and catches her off guard, this time so infectiously that a giggle bubbles past her lips; soon the kitchen is shaking with their laughter.

Finally Griffin pauses long enough to stand. "Lil' lady, there's a reason my bar doesn't serve food. I'd be out of business the second a customer smells the smoke."

He scoops up their plates and scrapes the mess into the trashcan. A smile is peeking from under his moustache when he turns back around. "How 'bout we see what Ruby's rustling up this morning?"


	5. Breakfast at Ruby's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As one can probably guess, the title is a bad pun of Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

Breakfast at Ruby’s

 

“Fended for yourself, hmm?” She looks at Griffin with twinkling eyes, her chin propped up in her palm.

“Well, I might have had some help.”

“I see.” Ruby turns away nonchalantly. She fluffs the rice. “Every meal I’ve cooked for you since you were old enough to shave was some help. Oh my, here I thought that my son was ungrateful.” Crack! One deft twist of her wrist and the egg drops into the wok pan. Muffy mentally taking notes as Ruby neatly cracks another egg.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Ruby. I’d be nothing but skin and bones if it weren’t for your cooking,” Griffin says humbly.

The indignation is disappears as quickly as it came when the corner of her eyes crinkle. “You know you are welcome here anytime, Griffy.” Griffy coughs while Muffy giggles. “And you too, sweetie,” Ruby says, smiling at her. “It’s so lovely to see Griffin meet a nice girl. Maybe you can introduce him to some of your lady friends, hmm?” Ruby says with a wink.

“I have all the friends I need,” grumbles Griffin, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the countertop. Both women ignore him.

“Sounds like a wonderful idea. One of my girlfriends has a terrible soft spot for the independent types.”

“Don’t let him fool you, sweetie. He may look like an lonesome old grump on the outside, but on the inside he’s a sugar cookie!”

“If that means I get to eat your cookies every day, I’ll be whatever you like,” Griffin says as he reaches over the counter for the platter of almond cookies.

“Oh, you are worse than Tim!” Ruby slaps his hand but his moustache is already speckled with crumbs. She frowns at him but her lips are twitching up as she takes the pan off the heat. She slides the fried rice into Chinese bowls and sets them and two sets of chopsticks in front of her guests. Griffin slides the chopsticks from the paper sleeves and snaps them apart.

“Much obliged, ma’am,” he says before picking up a bite of rice. It doesn’t make it to his mouth before he catches Muffy out of the corner of his eye. Her left hand is fumbling to position the unsnapped chopsticks in her right, but her fingers are uncooperative, as stiff and awkward as the utensils themselves.

“I take it you’ve never eaten with chopsticks before.”

Muffy blushes. She sets the chopsticks down and folds her hands on her lap. “I haven’t had the chance. I always see Asian restaurants in the city but I don’t go inside. I mean, not that I don’t like Asian food, but usually my friends and I eat at other restaurants.”

Griffin looks at Ruby, who is drying a dish with a towel. She nods at him. “Don’t just sit there. Show her. You know how to use chopsticks just as well as I do.”

He clears his throat and gestures at the chopsticks. “If you don’t mind?”

When she shakes her head he shifts to the edge of the stool and reaches over her to grab them. Resting his arm on the counter between them so she has a clear view, he snaps the sticks apart and clicks them together. With his free hand he points at the position of his fingers. “See how the top one moves? Never the bottom one. To get them even…” He taps them on the table. With the same punctilious look she wore while Ruby cooked the perfect eggs, Muffy watches as he picks up a rice clump. He drops the grains back into the bowl and hands the chopsticks back to her.

She struggles a moment to right them, and when they are only a little lopsided, taps them together. The chopsticks cross. “Like this?”

“Almost.”

Griffin hesitates, glancing at her for permission, before covering her hand in his. Her lily-white skin makes his look like rough leather. Underneath his fingers, he moves hers so they tap the chopsticks lightly on the table, straightening them. They pick up a clump of rice.

A whiff, and his nose twitch at the scent of…flowers? Roses, perhaps? It’s been so long since he smelled it that it takes him a moment to remember it is perfume…and how close he is to its wearer.

Griffin straightens, scooting back. He tugs at his collar from the heat suddenly rising up his neck. From the rice. At the abrupt lack of support, Muffy’s chopsticks loosen and drop the rice before it can reach her lips. “Oh!”

“I think you’ve got it.” Griffin mumbles, filling his mouth with grain and ignoring Muffy’s baffled look.

Ruby, spying on it all, gives a little shake of her head.

“Men.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The “close-proxmity-while-teaching-insertactivityhere” scene has been done a thousand times before, but I couldn’t resist! Hopefully it’s not too much of a cliché. (It totally is…)


	6. Accidents Happen

 

They spent the rest of the day behind the counter, surrounded by glasses, fruits, and bottles of spirits. The music the bar was named after drifts from an old radio in the corner. Griffin teaches her the bartender’s trade. Always blend the ice first. Appearances do matter. Bartender first, therapist second, peacemaker third. Janitor when someone has one too many. It turns out that Muffy’s better at mixing than cooking; only the first three drinks had to be poured down the drain.

By the time Griffin flips the OPEN sign outside he is satisfied that Muffy could handle the basics. If not, there were always the cheat sheets. He had dug them up the night before. The pages are yellowed but in good shape; Griffin rarely had need to take them out.

Right on time Gustafa is the first to enter, being the creature of habit he is. When he sees Muffy standing behind the bar, a bit unsurely, he simply smiles and tips of his hat. The door barely had a chance to close before it swings open again and Rock strides in. Muffy gives a friendly wave. “Good evening.”

For a moment Rock is frozen, his jaw dropped, before a grin slides across his face. He swaggers over and leans his elbow on the counter, tossing his hair. “Hey, there, haven’t seen you before. What’s a pretty chickie doing in a dump like this?”

Muffy’s mouth opens and closes at a loss for words—and not from being awestruck. An outstretched hand is shoved between them. Gustafa grins. Amusement twinkles in the glint of his shades.

“Don’t mind Rock. He likes to bark but doesn’t have much bite. Name’s Gustafa.”

“Muffy,” she says, gratefully taking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“What kind of name is that?” Rock interrupts.

“A name no stranger than yours, Rock’n’roll,” remarks Griffin. He splays his hands on the counter. “Same as usual, Gust?”

“Same as usual, Griff.”

He gets out a glass, and catching Muffy’s eyes, tilts his head at Rock. Blue Punch—the easier of the two regulars.

“Two Moon Trips. One for me and one for the chickie.”

Forget the punch.

Muffy winks but takes out a single glass. Good. At least Griffin can trust her not to drink on the job—first rule of bartending. Not to mention the fact that Rock can rarely pay for his own drink, never mind anyone else’s, without soliciting the unfortunate soul that happens to sit next to him. The room begins to hum with light conversation as Gustafa talks about a new guitar riff he’s working on, while Rock tries every pick-up line in the book on Muffy, spinning half a dozen more that could belong in a subpar YA novel. Each attempt she deflects with as much grace as an experienced barmaid. Griffin reminds himself to sneak a little extra in her tip jar.

He knows all of his regulars’ orders by heart; he can afford to spare glances at Muffy’s work as he mixes Gustafa’s drink. The cheat sheets are taped on the corner of the counter, out of the patrons’ sight, and she sneaks glances at them when the customers aren’t looking. She had remembered the ice went first—good—but he gulps when she pours soymilk instead of cream. The soy is meant only for the lactose intolerant or vegan customers (i.e., Gustafa). It would ruin the delicate flavor of the Moon Trip, and he’s been serving Rock well enough to know the only thing separating him and a spoiled child when he doesn’t get what he wants is that a child caused a smaller mess.

“Here you are.” Griffin reaches over Muffy to set down Gustafa’s drink—and his elbow knocks over her glass. It spills over the counter, the white liquid dripping onto Rock’s pants.

He jumps to his feet. “What the hell, man!”

Muffy gasps and scurries to the cupboard for a rag. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll clean that mess up right away.”

“I’m ‘fraid the blame’s on me. I’ll rustle you up another one,” Griffin says. He takes his time getting another glass.

Rock grumbles about the price of his pants, and Gustafa winks knowingly at Griffin as he mixes up a new drink. Griffin pretends not to see.


	7. Lullabies

Lullabies

In the stillness of midnight Muffy trudges up to her bedroom. As she passes the dirty jar on the dresser she drops a handful of crumpled bills into it—more than she expected—and slumps into bed. She doesn't bother to undo her dress. A poof of dust tickles her nose as she sinks into what could be considered a mattress; it was so thin that the springs poked at her ribcage.

Her hands reek of alcohol from the spilled drinks she had wiped up. After the third drink Griffin had "bumped" over she had caught onto the ruse. The embarrassment would have been unbearable if he hadn't covered for her. Most bosses wouldn't be so understanding. Muffy had worked at more places than she had fingers, but the first day of trial by fire never gets easier. Learning the ropes, the customers, the rules spoken only after they had been crossed; it's as bad, if not worse, than cramming the night before a test. When she closes her eyes she can still see the miffed glares of her first customers and Gustafa's partly amused, partly sympathetic smile. The temptation to pull the covers over her head and pretend that tonight never happened is stronger than she cares to admit. She settles for blowing a limp lock of hair from her face.

She rolls onto her side and looks out the window. The curtains are drawn but the view offers no solace tonight. Neither the moon nor its accompanying bow can be spotted from behind the gray clouds that obscure the sky. Muffy grabs the pillow above her head, hugging it tight to her chest. Her nose twitches from the dust. She hums the ingredients for drinks as her eyelids start to droop. She had put the recipes to the music in the bar as a mnemonic. For all the good it did. Humming the recipes now is a poor substitute for a lullaby, but it is enough to slow her racing mind to the speed of molasses.

At some point it occurs to her that she's not the only one making music tonight. She does not know when it began, but she had been unconsciously intertwining her lullaby with another tune until it no longer sounded like the blues. From the room below music percolates through the wood floor up to her bedroom. Thrumming, resonating, nostalgic.

Guitar.

On almost every song Muffy had listened to after moving away from her parents', she could hear guitar playing in the background, but never had it been alone and raw like this. Where the orchestral music she was raised with had been intense and invigorating, demanding your attention, this melody is steady and understated, its rhythm only pulling you in if you stop long enough to listen.

And she is listening. The tension drains from her body like sap from a tree and her muscles relax. Her breaths draw out slower and slower. As the music drifts her to sleep, Muffy can almost hear Mama singing to her, an audience of only one.


	8. A Secret

A Secret

 

“Left…third drawer…” Muffy mutters to herself, rifling through Griffin’s dresser for the revised drink menu he had asked her to fetch. Why he would keep it in his bedroom rather than the actual bar is beyond her. She had learned fast that if it is not a bottle of wine, Griffin is prone to losing it. He owns more than two dozen guitar picks, but uses his fingers to strum because he forgets the pick’s whereabouts the second he puts it down. Once Muffy found one at the bottom of a wine bottle. She has gotten into the habit of piling the picks she comes across on his nightstand. Most were missing by morning.

“Left…third drawer… Eww! Not here.” With a grimace Muffy shuts the drawer and its unmentionables away. She closes her eyes, says a prayer, and slides the next drawer open. Old floral perfume wafts out; something her grandmamma would wear. Inside the drawer is a folded sheet of paper. Its whiteness has long since tarnished, and the crease in the middle threatens to tear if not handled gingerly. She can make out the faint silhouettes of words and music bars through the thin paper. The last items are two gold rings; their worn polish glints in the dimness.

A bark of laughter; Muffy jumps. One of the patrons. Their rowdy laughs can be heard through the door. Is Griffin chuckling, too? Muffy thinks that he likes having that bushy brush on his upper lip to conceal his humor, but she can tell when it is being stifled. The twitch of that very bushiness and the crinkle of his brown eyes give it away. She hasn’t heard him laugh, really laugh, since that morning with the “seasoned” eggs. What will it take to make him laugh again like that?

The perfume is thick when Muffy carefully shuts the drawer, muffling the aroma and its memories. The floorboards creak when she steps back. On top of the dresser, right in front of her eyes, is the menu. Of course. She grabs it before slipping out of the room.

l*l*l*l

 

After the bar is closed Muffy sits on her freshly made bed, the linens crisp and the pillows fluffed. A few days after moving in she had called a girlfriend in the city. They had waited until her fian—he—was out before moving her furniture from their apartment. With Ruby and Griffin’s help, they had set up the attic so it was no longer stuffy but a room she could actually consider calling a bedroom. Her furniture still seemed out of place in its current surroundings, but at least it was all hers. For once.

On Muffy’s lap is an antique wooden box; the wood is chipped and the painting of a ballerina poised en pointe is fading on the lid. Whenever Muffy succumbs to the dull ache in her chest, she would take out the box and trace her fingertips over the ballerina’s golden crown of hair. She had always been in awe of how composed the dancer seemed. While the picture did not show it, Muffy could imagine the ballerina’s audience in the background, captivated by every flourish she displayed.

Muffy knows her expression had never came close to matching the dancer’s. She frets too much. She sets the box on the bed next to her and takes out a knotted handkerchief. She unties the knot and spreads the fabric out on her lap. Her fingers flick through the pile of rings. They are all the same color as the one in Griffin’s dresser, but slimmer and with a cold stone situated in each. The stones glint and mock of broken things. A little sigh escapes. Her thumb rubs the small, rough spot on her finger that contrasts with the rest of her porcelain skin.

She moves onto her last keepsake at the bottom of the box: an old photograph as well-thumbed as Griffin’s music sheet. In the photo a young man in a tuxedo is leaning casually on the rail of a grand stairwell, like how gentlemen do on fireplaces in English films. The warm sepia tone of the photograph makes his skin seem to glow from within; his wavy hair looks even more golden that it did in life. Boyish dimples surface in his cheeks as his lips tip up. Everyone said that Muffy took after him, but she had never thought her green eyes could sparkle with the light that his did. His suave appearance belied his low gruff voice that would melt whenever he would sing her a lullaby. It was a rare occasion when Mama had enough time to tuck her and her stuffed kitten, Lady Mew, into bed.

Guitar is playing again. Muffy has listened to Griffin play long enough to know that it is not a song she recognizes. Maybe he’s in a nostalgic mood, too.

She doesn’t know how much time passes before she finally wraps up the handkerchief with its keepsakes. She carefully puts the photo and the bundle back in the box and closes the lid.

“All right. That’s enough,” Muffy whispers. Mama always said so much pining isn’t good for a pretty face. Almost as if in agreement the music from below comes to a close.


	9. The Flow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The song in this chapter is called “La Vie En Rose” by Edith Piaf. I claim no rights to it or its lyrics!!!

The Flow

 

Muffy is humming to herself as she wipes down the counter with a rag. It is almost closing time, and Griffin is chatting with the lingering patrons as they nurse their last sips. Well, most of them anyway. She can’t tell if Kasey is asleep or if she should call a doctor, but he hasn’t lifted his head once from where it rests on the counter in half an hour. And yet his fingers are iron whenever she tries to pry his tankard from them.

“Her voice was soooo—hiccup—sweet. Like an angel…or a—a? What’z ya call those women—hiccup—with those fishy tails again?” Patrick nudges Kasey with his elbow, eliciting only a groan in reply.

“A mermaid?” Griffin offers.

Patrick swats the suggestion away like it’s an irritating fly. “No! Yer not listening to—hiccup—me! The woman with the voice! Ya know, who sits on rocks and—hiccup—sings to sailors. What’z that called?”

“A mermaid,” Griffin deadpans.

“A siren?” Gustafa says.

“A siren! Oh, she was—hiccup—beau-tee-ful.” He drops his chin into his palm. His half-lidded eyes roll to Muffy, who immediately stops humming. “She lookz a lot like ya, actually. Bet ya can—hiccup—sing too, dontcha?”

“I can’t, but my mama could. She was an opera singer.”

Griffin raises an eyebrow. “I don’t recall you mentioning that.”

“The topic never came up before.” She keeps her gaze down as she stashes the rag under the counter. “Can you close up for the night? I’m tired and—“

“Well, then, let’z have a song! Kasey would love it, wontcha Kasey?” A snore rumbles from the passed-out lump. Patrick waves his drink, sloshing some on his brother’s head. “Betcha got some—hiccup—nice pipes on ya, girl.”

“Oh, no, not me. I can’t carry a tune anymore than a squirrel can.”

“You don’t carry a tune, Sunshine. The tune carries you.”

Muffy stares at Gustafa, but he only turns his guitar harness around so his constant companion is cradled in his lap. His fingers sweep across the strings. “Don’t fight the music. Just let it flow.” He lays down a simple riff ready to be built upon. Muffy shoots Griffin a flustered look, but instead of interceding, he reaches behind him and switches off the radio.

Suddenly feeling like a schoolgirl on stage with no idea where to look, Muffy fidgets with the hem of her sweater. With no other noise the two chords that Gustafa loops through is like a hollow tree, emptied of what gives it substance. It sounds nothing like the guitar she hears most nights. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and soon the air is thick and stifling any words she could have dislodged from her throat.

Patrick shifts his focus from her to his drink. Even Gustafa’s smile wavers; his strumming starts to die. Only one soul never looks away.

“Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,”

Without missing a beat Gustafa picks up the tune, his smile returning full-force. Muffy’s green eyes flit unsurely to Griffin, but his brown ones are crinkling at the corners.

“Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche,

Voilà le portrait sans retouche,”

Kasey looks up long enough to blink glazed eyes at her. He is oblivious to the red dent in the middle of his forehead where he had been propped up on the counter. His twin is humming along while Gustafa rocks his head to the beat. Muffy could hear Mama lecturing her about posture as she straightens her back and lifts her chin.

“De l'homme auquel j'appartiens,”

Suddenly a second guitar blends into the first. Without stopping Muffy glances behind her. Griffin dips his head in acknowledgement as he strums on the guitar brought out from behind the counter. His fingers draw out a low and steady melody; the complementing shore to the waves that Gustafa builds and breaks with whimsy.

Muffy closes her eyes and lets the music flow out of her. The song swells up effortlessly, growing into something more. For a moment Muffy could see herself as a siren, her voice as mesmerizing as a ballerina’s dance. She sings louder.

“Quand il me prend dans ses bras  
Il me parle tout bas

Je vois la vie en rose.”

By the last verse Patrick and Kasey have linked their arms around their backs as they sway together to the rhythm. Their tankards rest untouched on the counter. The guitarists are stomping their feet on the wood boards as if urging the earth to sing along. When the song finally draws to a close and the bar reverberates with applause, Muffy opens her eyes; they shine with tears. She smiles as they cheer for an encore.

Mama would have been proud.


	10. Remodeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place about a season after Muffy arrives at the Blue Bar.
> 
> Part II:
> 
> Acclimating

Griffin had never put much stock in superstitions. Pond-dwelling Kappas, talking teddy bears, or Harvest Sprites who sneak about making mischief in small towns.

Then comes the remodeling.

Yesterday only the bar's stark walls stared back at him, and today he wakes up to vintage posters of magicians and dancers in voluminous skirts. He is sure they weren't there the day before…or that vase of roses, for that matter. At least…he thinks they are roses. What other flowers are red?

When he heads to the shelf to wash away the morning's strangeness with a drink, his heart almost fails. The bottles kept in the same order since his grandfather's ownership have been rearranged in the most horrific way possible…by date and brand. When he reaches for the gin, he grabs the rum; when he looks for the 1998's wines, he finds the 2002's champagne.

Simply put: it's a nightmare.

When Muffy comes down that morning, she finds him on a barstool nursing a glass of sweet tea and staring contemplatively at the posters. He glances at her, at the dark circles under her eyes, before resuming his staring contest with the magician. He is winning.

"Late night?"

"A little. I had some decorations leftover from Mama's opera days, and I thought this place could use some pizzazz." Her eyes sparkle even as she fidgets with the hem of her sweater.

A pause. Then Griffin nods. "Pizzazz is good."

That afternoon when he asks Ruby what pizzazz means, she simply laughs and pats him on the shoulder.

l*l*l*l

That had been only the beginning.

As if the women of Forget-Me-Not-Valley had been brainwashed, they start to show up at the bar as if it is a grocery store. One out of five times when the doorbell jingles it is of the female variety; an improvement of the one of fifty odds, and that is usually Ruby delivering meals out of pity.

Nami comes in the most, although she had even before the remodeling, but Vesta is new. Typically the farmer stops by only on holidays to trounce everyone else in chugging. By now Griffin can mix their drinks by heart: Moon Trip and Red Punch, respectively. Chris also pops in now and then after work. (Cherry Pink.) Flora, too, (Stone Oil,) though her words are fewer and her hair and shoes are forever coated in dirt; without fail a layer of dust is left behind on the counter by the time she mumbles "…Goodnight."

Then one night the stars align. The doorbell ding-a-lings and in comes Vesta and Chris, with a bemused Flora in tow. Muffy handles the easier drinks while Griffin mixes the most complex. That is the extent of his involvement.

Muffy slides the drinks across the counter, then props her elbows on the surface, her chin resting between her knuckles. She takes over the conversation until they twitter like birds, sharing tips on cooking, kung fu, and other matters Griffin knows absolutely nothing about. In fact, he reckons this is the longest time he's ever heard a group of women talk. He didn't even know that Flora could talk; she orders by pointing at the drinks on the menu.

Soon enough they give no more notice of Griffin than a shadow. Just as well. It all shoots right over his head anyway. Throughout the night the instinct to slip away and let the women have their space nags at him, but the obligation to be on hand at the bar glues him to his quiet corner. He might as well lean back and observe: a bartender's secondary inclination.

Griffin would be lying if he says that he pays each lady the same amount of attention. It is not Flora's or Vesta's dimples he counts every time they smile. He blames it on the change. Since that night with Muffy's song, the metamorphosis had been so gradual he didn't notice it until it is right in front of his eyes, still wearing the same red, gold, and blue design she had as an awkward caterpillar. Now she flits from spot to spot, drawing the eye to her golden locks every time she tosses them back. The light catches in her eyes, and they sparkle when she laughs.

The spark doesn't fade when some regulars arrive. Before Griffin can budge from his spot, she is already there, filling drinks and speaking sweetly. As the regulars settle on their barstools next to the ladies, they blink in surprise at how their comfortable environment is flying with sparks and stimulation. The new customers are quick to welcome the old, and with one drink in their company, the regulars are laughing as lively as they would with three but without the rowdiness. A glance from the waitress, and even the twins are watching their imbibition.

Griffin cannot remember a night like this before.

A poet could go on and on about the changes in the Blues Bar since La Vie en Rose, but Griffin is no poet. The best he could describe it is: a woman's touch.

Or a Harvest Sprite's mischief.

After a few nights the regulars don't even blink at the additional company. For Griffin, it had taken only the first night for him to realize he doesn't miss the sleepy ol' bar at all.


	11. GIRLS ONLY

GIRLS ONLY

 

“Where’s my Blue Punch?”

“And my Stone Oil!” Vesta bangs her fist on the counter. “I work from sunup to sundown, and the very least I deserve is my booze!”

“Yes, ma’am. Coming right up.” Griffin says, a pitcher in one hand and a cocktail shaker in the other. He feels more like a factory worker than a bartender as he preps a line of drinks in front of him. A dozen empty glasses still wait to be filled.

His vision swims with the faces of regular and recent patrons, and some Griffin had never caught inside the bar before. Like the girl at Vesta’s elbow—her “niece” he reckons—who always waves to him on his way to the city. She is trying to pacify the older farmer. Surprisingly she succeeds in lowering Vesta’s shouts to grumbles; Griffin’s fondness of her only increases.

He can’t remember the last time the bar had a crowd as large as the one tonight. For what reason he doesn’t know, but he catches snippets about an upcoming festival. All of the barstools are taken. Many folks resort to lounge in corners or even hang around outside to chat while they wait to be served. No doubt some brazen soul would have hopped onto the counter if any room had been left from Griffin’s mixing equipment.

The hubbub of voices is so deafening that Griffin can barely keep the drinks straight. Did the squeeze of strawberry go into the Cherry Pink or the Moomoo Milk? And where is Muffy? She said she would be dressed and ready in five minutes. That was ten minutes ago.

“Bottoms up.” Griffin slides the completed drink across the bar to the recipient hand. He swings up the counter door. “Excuse me, folks, but I need to fetch my extra pair of hands.”

“Hey, what about my drink?” Rock demands.

Griffin goes to the back door without a word. The door shuts, muffling the din, and Griffin finally has a chance to take a deep breath. With his thoughts recollected, he strides to the attic ladder and bends his head back; the trapdoor is closed. Through the floor he can hear the blow of a hairdryer.

“Almost done in there? We’ve got a full house tonight.”

The hairdryer drowns out Muffy’s reply, and Griffin steps on the first rung to try and make it out.

“Come again?”

“Come in!” he catches over the dryer. Obeying, Griffin climbs up the ladder and pushes open the door.

His heart stops.

Waves of gold hair. Startled emerald eyes. A red dress draping from the swell of porcelain hips.

Two shrieks. One high-pitched and the other higher. His heart restarts, hammering against his chest faster than Wally could sprint. With the rush, adrenaline kicks in, and Griffin ducks just in time as a hairdryer is launched at his head. It clanks to the floor, still howling, as he claps his hands over his eyes. The movement makes him lose his balance, almost teetering off the rung.

“I said ‘don’t come in’!”

“S-s-sorry!” He hasn’t stuttered like that since he first learned to hold a guitar. “I d-d-didn’t—I h-h-had n-no int-t-tention—”

“Get out!”

Griffin half-stumbles/half-falls down the ladder. The trapdoor slams above him; he flinches. Then gawks at it.

One second. Two.

Three, and the improvised projectile stops its huffing.

His mouth is dry when he finally remembers to snap his jaw shut. It takes another second before the racket in the bar reminds him of why he came there in the first place. He attempts a deep breath. It lodges in his throat until he coughs. With a shake of his head, Griffin swerves on his cowboy heel and mechanically marches back into the bar.

“So glad you could join—dude, what happened to your face?” blurts out Rock.

Griffin darkens an even deeper shade of red, redder than Muffy’s dress, as he stiffly bends to retrieve another glass. Without a word he pours the strongest spirit for himself first and Rock second, who still looks puzzled but takes it nonetheless. The other patrons stare at him before turning their blank eyes at each other. It is a rare occasion when something ruffles their bartender’s feathers.

Out of the entire crowd only Gustafa has the presence of mind to chuckle. His shades twinkle a little too knowingly for Griffin’s liking. Griffin takes a swig of his drink. No sooner does his face cool when it burns again the second Muffy arrives, flustered and just as flushed. Neither makes eye contact, and both hope their flushed faces don’t give them away.

Too late.

With a smirk Gustafa refills Griffin’s glass.

l*l*l*l

That night Griffin finds a sign nailed to the trapdoor. It reads in unmistakable print:

GIRLS ONLY.


	12. Breaking More than Ice

Breaking More Than Ice

Based on Griffin’s purple heart event in Harvest Moon: DS Cute, but with mostly different dialogue.

 

They are perfect. Little suns shining in pearly whites, with just a pinch of seasoning. No more, no less.

Muffy scoops the eggs out of the pan and—

Smash!

The eggs plop to the floor. A second later the spatula clanks as it lands in a pool of yellow blood. Click, click, goes her heels as Muffy rushes out of the kitchen and into the bar. She gasps at the sight of Griffin hunched over, leaning heavily on the counter.

“What’s wrong?!”

She moves to go to him.

“Don’t.”

He thrusts out his hand. She freezes. Hurt flashes across her face. He can’t still be embarrassed… can he? He had apologized earlier about walking in on her, but the awkwardness had still lingered between them like an ice fog. She had hoped that making breakfast would clear it but…

Griffin looks up and sees her expression. “I was reordering the bottles and dropped one. It’s nothing,” he hastily explains, gesturing below him.

Only then does she notice his hand cupping his bare foot and the broken glass strewn all over the floor. Blood dribbles from the ball of his foot to the bottom of his heel. Muffy chews her bottom lip; she can’t pinpoint where the cut is.

“I might’ve gotten a scratch or two.” Griffin chuckles self-deprecatingly. “These hands aren’t what they used to be.”

Muffy doesn’t laugh. The spilled liquor is slippery under her kitten heels, but she is grateful for the extra inches that separate her from the floor as she maneuvers around the shattered glass, the whole time ignoring Griffin’s objections. A dummy that doesn’t wear shoes—never mind socks—while handling glass bottles should not be talking.

Once she reaches his side she grabs a rag and lays it over the shards. “Give me your arm.”

“A band-aid will do just—“

“Your arm.”

Griffin grudgingly obeys. She wraps her hand around his waist and slings his arm over her shoulder; it droops there like a heap of wet rags. She looks down to watch their step. Out of the corner of her eyes, she catches the curly brown fuzz peeking out from Griffin’s collar.

“If anyone were to come in…” he murmurs. His breath stirs her hair, drawing her stare away. Heat rushes to her face, but thankfully he can’t see it from way up there. Then his words register and she winces at how ridiculous the sight of them would be. Before the height difference had been awkward. Now it is laughable. Under his heft, she sags like a granny so it looks as if he is weighing her down rather than her supporting him up.

Muffy sucks in a deep breath and musters her courage. Together they trudge out of the bar. They had barely stepped outside when a gust of brisk air nips her body where she had forgotten her sweater. She shivers. Then Griffin is rubbing warmth into her bare arm, the calluses on his hand like sandpaper on her skin. He leans over just enough to shelter her from the wind, and his heat envelops her more than a jacket ever could. Her nose tingles from the scent of wine lingering on his Western shirt, the bouquet rich with honey and grapes and memories of summer.

Her face reddens, and it is not from the cold.

Thankfully it is early enough in the morning that they make it to the clinic without witnesses. They crash through the door, and Dr. Hardy squints up from the bonsai he’s tending to. By now Muffy’s back is beginning to spasm. Griffin slides off her shoulders and flumps onto the hospital bed. Muffy droops to the ground beside him.

Dr. Hardy lifts an eye…lid? “All right, who’s the damsel and who’s the chump?”

“The blonde isn’t always the damsel in distress,” Muffy pouts.

“No one’s in distress, doc,” Griffin reassures him.

“Except for the bed sheets.” The doctor’s other eyelid lifts while the other one droops, like two curtains being drawn. Whoop! Dwoop…

Where the sheets had once been a pristine white, there is now a rufous stain seeping underneath Griffin’s foot. “Whoops.”

He starts to rise, but Muffy shoots to her feet and pushes his shoulders back until he’s slumping again. “Oh, no! You are not putting any more weight on that foot, mister!”

Dr. Hardy cracks a smile. “You’d do well to listen to the lady.” He swivels in his chair and rolls it over to the bed. “Let’s have a look.”

l*l*l*l

Muffy stops biting her lip when Dr. Hardy only grunts at Griffin’s attempts to downplay his injury. After he bandaged the wound, Dr. Hardy pats the top of Griffin’s foot. “The cuts are a little deep, but yeah, you’ll be fine. Feel free to walk on it, but no running just yet.”

Griffin’s mouth twitches.

“Nowhere I want to run, doc.” His words ring with sincerity. “As long as I can work I’ll be satisfied. I’ve still got a mess to clean up.”

“Don’t be silly,” Muffy chides him. “I can clean it before breakfast. I hope you’re hungry.” She winks.

“Because I’m making eggs.”

l*l*l*l

 

They are perfect. Little suns shining in pearly whites, with just a pinch of seasoning. No more, no less.

They eat every last bite.


	13. Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered setting this chapter in the city with Muffy's friends there, since in the games she supposedly did not have many friends in the town, but that doesn't make sense to me. In the game she's a charming and outgoing person, so I'm taking the liberty of her having more friends besides just Griffin. Hopefully this isn't too out-of character to read!

Epiphany

The last thing Muffy had expected when Lumina glided into the bar before opening hours, presenting her with a champagne-tinted invitation in calligraphy far more elegant than anything Muffy has ever scribbled, is to find herself spilling to girls she'd chatted with only a handful of times about the ex-boyfriends who had done her wrong. It is surprisingly therapeutic.

"—and then Rock called me childish! As if he's one to talk!" Lumina huffs.

"He did say that he thinks you're cute," Celia reminds her. "Rock isn't the smoothest with words, but he does speak from his heart."

"Too bad he doesn't speak from his brain." Lumina slumps her chin deeper into her pillow. She sighs, but a bubble of giggles interrupts it. "He is cute, isn't he? The way he sees the world…it's sublime." She sighs again, but this time a soft smile curves her lips. Then she blinks, the daydreams clearing, and peers over the top of the pillow to Muffy. "What about you? Any juicy tales to tell?"

Lumina, Celia, Flora, and Muffy lounge in a circle on a Persian carpet, dressed in their prettiest of nightgowns. Except for the archaeologist, who had opted for a simple baggy t-shirt, sleep shorts, and her customary boots. No one expected any different.

"Well, there was some drama a few days ago…" Muffy murmurs. "But I'm not sure if I should talk about it."

"Well now you simply must!" Lumina insists.

"Vesta says a story is only good if you can't share it at the dinner table," Celia says.

"I'm not sure…" Muffy twirls a lock of her hair around her finger. The memory is still fresh in her mind, and her face heats at the mere thought of it.

"This is how slumber parties work," Lumina says. "I told something embarrassing about me—well, Rock, technically—so now it's your turn."

The tress knots around Muffy's finger. Caught.

If only the laws of slumber parties and girl codes weren't so hard to ignore.

She doesn't know what makes the words spill out. Perhaps it is the nostalgia of being in a room as luxurious as the hotels she had often stayed at as a child, or perhaps it is the excitement of finally having girl-talk without the worry of eavesdropping men, or perhaps it is the way Celia is looking at her, with her warm brown eyes that make her feel like she can share anything without being judged; but as soon as one word slips from her tongue, the rest spills out of what led to her nailing a sign to her bedroom door.

Immediately the tale is a success.

When she comes to the part where she couldn't distinguish her shriek from Griffin's, Lumina and Celia are giggling into their pillows so much that Muffy is afraid they'll suffocate. Celia mentions that maybe she should nail a sign to her door, as Vesta has a habit of barging in and Marlin of sleepwalking. "Though I'd have to change the wording," Celia admits, tilting her head.

"Yes, to 'No Aunties or Elvis Look-Alikes Allowed'," Lumina giggles.

Muffy's face is as bright as it had been when the story had occured. Yet, strangely, she is smiling with the girls.

"That's embarrassing," Flora mumbles when the story ends, the first time she's spoken that night. She holds up the empty platter of cucumber sandwiches Sebastian had served (of which Lumina had two, Muffy one, and Celia zero). "Can I get some more of these?"

After Sebastian had come and gone, replenishing the sandwiches and their mugs of hot chocolate, Lumina props her chin in her hand.

"Won't you tell us another story about you and Griffin?"

The way Lumina bats her eyelashes says that Muffy has little choice in the matter. So she tells them about the time he found her dripping on his doorstep like some drowned cat, and how he still welcomed her into his home despite the hour. The time he was willing to eat her disastrous eggs without one protest, and the time he ate every morsel after she had almost drew blood from chewing her lip out of worry. She could've sworn a wink had been exchanged between Lumina and Celia.

Then she tells them of the covert hours she hears him play at night, as if he intuitively knows when she needs the soothing melody the most. Muffy struggles to put into words how the notes flow out as if he's playing an angel's instrument rather than a secondhand guitar, and worries she does not do it justice, but as she speaks the gazes of the girls are far away, as if they can hear the strums of the strings.

When Sebastian comes around with a third serving of sandwiches, about as evenly shared as the first and second had been, Muffy's mouth has the texture of an excavation site. She drains her mug of hot cocoa. The drink is rich and creamy, the foam lathering her tongue, but it tastes plain without the decoration of rainbow sprinkles.

"Wow," Lumina exhales, her palm cushioning her cheek. "You two are like Romeo and Juliet."

"Who?"

"You and Griffin, of course!"

"Griffin? No. What gives you that idea?"

"Well, you are staying at his house."

"Because he knew I had no where else to go. I can't afford Ruby's inn." Muffy sets down her mug, and the giddiness that had been building up in her like sparkling wine starts to flatten.

"He is a good man. There's no shame in liking him." Celia's smile is soft, but somehow it makes Muffy even more flustered than she had been when telling the nude story. She shakes her golden ringlets.

"Griffin is a gentleman, but he's my boss and he's…he's…"

"Older?" Celia offers, not unkindly.

Muffy flushes, but cannot deny it.

"I thought the same about Carter before we started dating," says Flora, and the girls' eyes widen in surprise. Lumina leans over and whispers in Celia's ear, "She fancies men?"

If Flora overhears her, she doesn't say. "I work for Carter and he's older, too, but we know what we want. We're both mature enough not to treat each other as just another fling."

"I wish Rock was like that." Lumina sighs.

"You've said that most of the men you've dated were younger," Celia says to Muffy. "If all you want is to settle down and start a family, have you ever considered Griffin? He is the most down-to-earth man I know."

"I never thought of it like that before." Muffy says the words softly, barely a whisper, though she doesn't know who she is saying them to.

Settle down…start a family…what Mama had never wanted and what Muffy always has.


	14. Real Man's Wine

Real Man's Wine

The doorbell rings a half hour before opening.

"Sorry we're not open—oh."

Muffy blinks at the boy standing unsurely at the entrance. She had seen him in town a few times, but like a roadrunner, he never stayed in one spot long enough for her to blurt out more than a hello. Even now his feet shuffle restlessly. This is her first chance to get a good look at him. On his cheek is a band-aid, no doubt from falling during one of his jogs, and his head doesn't even reach the top of the counter. He can't be more than seven or eight.

Muffy smiles. "We're not open yet, but I can make you a smoothie or milkshake if you'd like." He looks like he could use one. Baby fat still softens his face, but the plumpness ends there; his limbs seem to defy physics and are little wider than sticks. It's a wonder he can run on them, never mind dart about as he does.

"No, thank you…" the boy mumbles so low that Muffy has to lean down to hear him. His eyes flit around the bar, landing everywhere but on her.

"Can I…um…"

"G'morning, Hugh. Where's your father today?" Griffin asks, the door to his room closing behind him. Muffy would be lying if she says she isn't a bit envious at how the boy perks up at his approach.

"Dad's out on his morning jog, sir."

"Don't you usually go with him?"

"Yeah, I do, but…um…" The toe of his sneaker scrapes against the floorboards, but he glances up at them. Muffy can see him weighing whether or not to confide in the grown-ups.

Finally he looks around as if someone may be spying before beckoning quickly with his hand. Muffy and Griffin lean in. With a hand cupped around his mouth, he whispers, "I want. A drink. Please."

"Of course. We have soda, milk, hot cocoa—"

Hugh shakes his head. He glances around again to check that the walls don't have ears before whispering loudly, "I mean a grown-up drink."

Muffy straightens, unsure whether to be amused or concerned. "I'm sorry, but we can't serve alcohol to you. You'll have to wait a little longer."

"But I can't!" His face crumples, and his dimples accent his youth even more. "Katie dared me to drink one! She says that it's what real men do!"

Muffy is just about to say that Katie should act like a real lady herself before ordering others around, but before she can, Griffin says, "But Katie doesn't know the truth."

Hugh blinks at the impossibility of Katie not knowing something.

"What truth?"

A pair of ruby eyes peek from the front door left ajar, their curiosity as piqued as Hugh's. Muffy wonders how long they have had another guest.

"The truth about real men." Griffin kneels down so he and the boy are closer in height; calm brown eyes level with bright blue ones, a face etched in fine lines and another as smooth as silk. "What Kate doesn't realize is that alcohol doesn't make you a man, or mature, or even smart. I've watched more fools get redfaced and loud just because, but when they glance around, not a one looks back with respect. Now someone who knows that a clear head and a healthy body wins over any drink, now that's someone I respect. Take your old man, for instance. You don't see him comin' home the worse for wear, do you?"

"No, never. He says that drinks slows him down." Hugh says, but then his chin jerks up. "But what about Mom? She comes here sometimes."

"Your mama's a smart woman. She knows when enough is enough."

If good parents are worth the world, Hugh knows it, and grins as if Griffin had given it to him. Then his face falls and he kicks at the floorboards again. "But I still need a drink. Katie will say I'm a baby if I don't get one."

"Katie can't make you anything you're not," Muffy says, her tone stern as she eyes the snoop at the door. A squeak comes from the entrance and the door thuds shut.

"If you're really set on a drink, I'll give you one," Griffin says. "Just this once."

Hugh's jaw drops the second that Muffy gasps. She may be named after a cat, but she ruffles up like a bird, and her glare is as severe as one zeroing in on its prey. The prey being Griffin, that is. She opens her mouth to snap something fierce, but he meets her glare.

His droopy brown eyes reflect none of her aggression or rebukes, only calmness, and mitigate her enough to keep her wrath in check. For now…

Eyes still like a hawk's, she watches him as he shuffles behind the counter and takes out a wine glass. He holds it out of view from behind the counter. They hear the sound of the bottle being unscrewed, followed by the tinkle of liquid on crystal. Muffy holds her stance with arms akimbo, her mouth screwed up like she had bitten into a lime, as he comes over with glass in hand. It sloshes with only a few inches of a dark purple liquid.

Hugh shuffles back, but takes it when Griffin hands it to him. He squints at the dark liquid and sniffs. "It smells icky."

"That's the alcohol," Griffin says.

Hugh scrunches his nose, but throws his head back and gulps it down. He hands back the glass; a purple stain rims his mouth. His tongue lolls out and he scrapes at it with his finger. "Ugth…that'th worze than raw fizh." He wipes his mouth on his sleeve; Muffy can just imagine the fit Chris will have when she sees the stain. "Thanks, sir, but I'd rather be a boy a little longer if I don't hafta drink that. Can I have a milkshake next time?"

"If you'd prefer," Griffin says.

"Sweet. See ya'll later, and thanks!" Hugh waves at them before racing out the door. As soon as it closes Muffy jabs a finger at Griffin's chest. "Shame on you, to let a child even sip alcohol! What would Chris say? Or Ruby?"

Griffin says nothing as he walks to the bar, rummaging for something under the counter.

"Don't you dare turn your back on me, mister! Have you no sha—"

Griffin lifts up a bottle filled with the same dark liquid he had poured for Hugh. The label reads: 100% Grape Juice. Muffy blinks, the fiery words cooling.

"It was pretend?"

Griffin nods.

"It's just…juice?"

Griffin nods again. "Hugh hates grapes. I reckon he wouldn't care for the real taste of wine, anyhow."

Muffy lets her arms fall to her sides. She breaths out, and just like that, all the air and anger deflates. For a moment: nothing. Silence. Then laughter, until she bends over from the force of them. Hair falls into her face, but she can't push it back because she's clutching her sides and tears fill her eyes. "Has anyone ever told you that you'd make a great father?"

The words are blurted in between laughs, before she could filter them out, but as soon as they're said she knows they're as true as Gustafa is green.

Griffin's eyes widen, wider than Muffy had ever seen. "No, ma'am, I can't say they have." His face reddens as he scratches his nose, but Muffy's face is reddening from an inability to breathe through the laughs than from embarrassment. Laughs at Hugh and Kate, laughs at Griffin, and laughs especially at how long it has taken her to realize the obvious.

It has only taken a slumber party and a bottle of grape juice.


	15. The One Who Got Away

Part Three:

The One Who Got Away

Her sandals dangle in her hand. The teal rhinestones that decorate the straps sparkle like the sea.

Muffy is close enough that the tide swooshes forward and washes over her feet. She squishes her toes in the damp sand. Sea spray tingles her cheeks. The coolness makes her eyes want to flutter shut, but she keeps them open. Absorbing it all.

Muffy doesn’t know how long she stands there, but the waves drown out the noise of company until it is right behind her.

“Hey! Is that really you, Goldilocks?”

She whirls around. One glance, and the crisp air turns hot. Too hot. It always did with him around.

Tawny skin; brown eyes, like hot chocolate; and arms just as warm. Her eyes linger on his smile, and her lips almost rise up to match, tingling as if she had sipped bubbly champagne. Then the bubbles flatten at the memory of the last time she had seen him.

His smile was washed away then. I’m not ready for that, he said. The stone’s gotta keep rolling, you know?

Muffy can’t speak now like she couldn’t then, and with the words still stuck in her throat, she ducks her head and hopes her tresses hides her face as she dodges past him, trying to make her escape. He is quicker than she remembered; she can already hear his feet kicking up sand from behind her. Any distance she had gained is lost when those warm arms wrap around her. She gasps. Too close. Too familiar.

“It is you! Goddess, I’ve missed you!”

He lifts her up and she grasps his shoulders in shock as he twirls her as easily as a ballerina. His laughter is everywhere, just as unrestrained and warm as the rest of him. When he finally sets her down, her vision swims with the force of it all.

“Where have you been, Goldilocks? One summer you’re in the city, and the next you’re gone!”

Muffy pushes out of his arms, restoring the distance between them. She crosses her arms over her chest and hopes it comes off as indignant rather than an attempt to steady the dizziness.

“Where have I been? I’m not the one who insisted on traveling three seasons out of four!”

“Okay, I’ll give you that,” he chuckles. “But I thought you’d be off living the life in the city. You know, eating non-fat yogurt and watching those concerts you love.”

“Operas, you mean.”

“Right, those things.” With anyone else the dismissal would hurt, but his smile melts it away before it can. “Take a walk with me, won’t you?” Before she can reply, he has already lifted her sandals from her hand and is sauntering away with them up the shore.

“K-Kai! Give those back!”

He starts to whistle.

Muffy makes an irritated noise but doesn’t take the bait.

Then he starts to swing her sandals from the hook of his fingers. The teal rhinestones catch the light and sparkle. Muffy huffs, stifles the urge to stomp, and runs after him.

When she catches up, Kai smiles like they had been strolling together the whole time. He is still smiling when she snatches back her sandals. He waits with his hands in his pockets as she slips them on.

“So what are you doing here so early?” he asks as they begin to walk. “The festival hasn’t even started yet.”

“What festival?”

“Beach Opening Day. You know, to celebrate the first day of summer.” He glances back at her and grins. “How long have you been in Forget-Me-Not, anyway?”

“Just a few seasons,” she admits, but doesn’t confess that Griffin has forgotten to inform her of the festivals every time. “And you? You seem comfortable here, or is that just the ocean’s affect on you?”

“Bit of both. I’ve spent the last couple of summers manning my snack shack here when I’m not at my restaurants in Mineral Town or the city. Speaking of snacks…” With a mock-bow, he gestures to the shack that had seemed to appear from nowhere. But that isn’t right. She looks back and sees their footprints in the sand; the quick flecks dotting the shore when she had raced for her sandals and the straight line up to where she now realized he had been leading her the entire time.

This shack.

Over the seasons Muffy had watched it gather leaves and snow until it had inevitably blended into the background, and she no longer gave it a second glance. Now she sees that all the debris had been swept away and replaced with unopened sets of plates, utensils, and napkins. His grin is almost sliding to his ears when she reads the newly painted sign: KAI’S SNACK SHACK.

“Since you’re here, why don’t I whip you up something to eat? I was just about to start cooking before I saw you.”

“Thank you, but no. I really should be going.” Technically, if there’s a festival then she has nowhere she needs to go, but Kai doesn’t need to know that. Muffy turns to leave, but his voice lures her back. Or at least gives her pause.

“Aww, don’t be like that. I’ll even make your favorite. Pizza with extra, extra mushrooms. Just the way you like it.”

Muffy hesitates, but a whimper from her stomach betrays her. She blushes. Her last cooking experiment hadn’t turned out so well. “Alright. I’ll stay. If only for a little while.”

“Great! One mushroom pizza comin’ right up!”

Muffy looks around her for a chair or stool but only beach blankets cover the sands. She reluctantly settles on the edge of a blanket, close enough so she can smell the butter he had splattered in a pan start to sizzle. Before she had even smoothed out her skirts, Kai is already chatting about the town just outside the valley he had mentioned earlier. He describes the scent of the sea spray mixing with the grapes in the local vineyard and the hours he spent on the pier doing nothing but swishing his feet in the water. When he talks about the restaurant he leases there and all the people who frequent it, pride lights up his expression. It suits the passionate side in him so he almost looks distinguished. Never thought she would use that word to describe Kai.

His voice has an easy flow to it, a wave that sweeps Muffy along like it always had before, and soon the sunrays has thawed any lingering chills. Not long afterwards she is getting as lost in his memories as he is. It feels like no time had passed since the last summer day they had spent giggling together, like children sharing their misadventures.

Hours later when the festival passes in a blur and the beach is too cold to linger any longer, Kai and Muffy promise that they’ll see each other soon.


	16. Guidance from the Guru

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harvest Moon or its characters, nor do I own this chapter’s lyrics, which is from the song “Four Seasons” in Avatar: The Last Airbender. I couldn’t resist! It felt so…right…while writing this, and you’ll soon read why.

Guidance from the Guru

"Oh! I got it!" Gustafa announces suddenly. He has spent the hours they've been lounging in the shade of the tree near Turtle Pond in search of the right words. Now he clears his throat and croons,

"Winter, spring,

Summer and fall.

Four seasons,

Four loves…

"Some…thing…Some…thing…looooove!"

The guitar strings buzz as he draws out the last note. He sweeps his fingers over them in a finale, then doffs his hat. "Do you feel it, Griff? Do you feel that magic?"

"There are few things that can make this old heart feel," Griffin says. "That, my friend, is not one of them."

"Oh, what does an old coot know, anyway?" Gustafa chuckles and flips his hat back on his head. He strums. "'Four seasons, four-oh-oh loves.' La-la la. Speaking of loves," he says, "have you asked her yet?"

His fingers continue to flow over the strings even while Griffin's freeze. "Ask who what?"

"You may be aging, but you're not dumbing." Gustafa plucks a tune that sounds suspiciously like a wedding march. "I know when the lovebug's been biting."

"Don't make something out of nothing, Gust."

"Don't let the bud wither before it blooms, Griff."

"Always the metaphors... If you're talking about Muffy—"

"I am."

"Well, you shouldn't. There ain't nothing between us."

"If you say so, Griff. But dogs can—"

"—Learn new tricks. I know."

"I was going to say 'get a new master', but that works, too."

He chuckles. Griffin tries to tune it out as he searches for another moment to capture with wood, strings, and ears. Sometimes the moment is immediate, other times he has to wait for it to come. This time it is delivered on a breeze.

A leaf as green as summer drifts down from the foliage overhead. A flick of his fingers marks its fall with a downtempo riff. Gustafa is quick to supplement it with steady bass notes that rumble into the tree, the earth, and their souls. The pond ripples as the leaf touches down, and the strings quiver to match. His mind quiets. Instinct orchestrates; fingers flitting over the instrument, in perfect translation of sight into sound. The notes ripple out; soft, trembling, evanescent, and for a moment Griffin feels—

"Do you still wear it?"

His nails screech on the metal strings, the connection broken. The local turtle ducks its head into its shell from the disturbance, but Gustafa's expression never changes. As placid as ever, he stares out over the pond. His shades glint in the sun. For a moment even his folksy tune is loud and abrasive, like a chair grating on the floorboards.

Then Griffin sighs. He lays his guitar flat on his lap and pulls out his golden necklace. Sunlight glints on the coin suspended from the chain.

"That's what I thought." Gustafa nods without turning to look.

Griffin lets the necklace drop back to his chest. "It's been over fifteen years, Gust."

"That's an awful long time."

"I know."

A leaf falls. This one is older than the previous, darkened past gold to a crinkly brown. Griffin's hands are motionless, but he already knows what song would fit its descent. He could play it in his sleep.

"Sometimes you have to let the new grass grow," Gustafa says.

"Trouble is, I don't think I remember how."

His fingers are swift when he plucks the flower from his hat and plants it in Griffin's pompadour.

"Flowers are a good start, Romeo."


	17. The Memories We Keep

The Memories We Keep

 

Griffin can hear Muffy turning over in her bed upstairs. Another restless night. For both of them. He thinks about picking up his guitar and strumming a tune, the one that gets her to peaceful dreams the fastest, but his hands ache from all the playing he did with Gustafa. Even without looking at it, that darn flower ferments in the back of his mind. He had put it in a glass of water on his nightstand, next to the pile of guitar picks Muffy has stockpiled for him.

Griffin picks the flower up by its thin stem, careful not to squash its petals. He twirls it between his fingers. Then, hesitantly, he lifts it to his nose and sniffs.

Just like her perfume.

Griffin can still remember it after all these years. The only time she didn’t wear that fragrance whose name he couldn’t get his tongue around was when she had been too sick to remember where she was.

They had always known her health wasn’t strong. That winter was the bitterest the valley had suffered in decades. And yet her fever was so high. Her cheeks were the reddest he had ever seen on her pallid skin. Tears streaked down her cheeks as her eyelids fluttered like a bird’s frightened heart. She would cry out in delirium, and no matter how many times he tried to call her back, she would be deaf to his voice.

Only guitar could lull her to sleep. It was a fitful one, at best, but at least she didn’t cry. He would play the song he wrote to propose to her. He could swear she almost smiled as she slept, but that was the only comfort he could give. Griffin had never regretted living in Forget-Me-Not in all of his life—except for that one night. Back then the town wasn’t big enough for a permanent doctor, and Dr. Hardy came about a decade and a half too late.

Goddess, he could still hear her. The screams. They still haunt his dreams. He is probably the only bartender in the world that has a drink only once every blue moon, in fear the screams will take him when he’s too disoriented to fight them off.

Lately he hasn’t needed to fight them off at all. Not since the last time he had played the song for his wife. That time the scream was different, in the rain. Muffy was nearabout the last thing he expected to see when he opened the door, and everything following up since that night continued the pattern of unexpected things. Not that he minds. He reckons the surprises are good to keep an aging mind up and running.

Aging. Huh. He wonders what his wife would think if she took a look at him now.

With a hand browned and roughed, Griffin picks up his necklace, warmed to touch from the heat of his skin. On one side of the pendant, the first coin he had earned from bartending glints at him, and when he flips it over, the other side shows a portrait of the woman who had once rested her head where her picture now lays. Her features are delicate, almost angelic—and so young. Sometimes he’s forgotten the exact shade of her blue eyes, but he knows the picture doesn’t do them justice. When he told her so, she laughed, a sound like tinkling bells. What the photograph lacks in color, it makes up in spirit. Somehow the camera had gone past the surface and into her soul. It had captured the gentleness in her eyes and the soft, sweet curve of her lips that always strived to laugh. Her ill health never dampened her spirits, but if he so much as coughed, she would fuss over him like a mother hen, pressing a palm to his forehead and nibbling her lip in worry. 

Like Muffy does.

They would have gotten along swell, Griffin reckons. Although his wife had a habit of doing things on her own good time while Muffy leaned towards impulsiveness, they both had compassion, and a kindness to them that would have let them hold the whole world in their hearts. Never spiteful, never judging—sometimes even to a fault.

But that’s his cynical side coming out, as his wife would say. Griffin wonders what else she would’ve said to him. He brings the flower to his nose; the petals feel like silk against his skin and smell like her.

Fifteen years is an awfully long time.

The bed creaks when Griffin gets to his feet—bare, as usual. He goes to his dresser and sets the flower on top. He opens a drawer, and the rush of perfume is so strong it brings tears to his eyes. On top of the folded music sheet—the one he had written for his soon-to-be wife and could still play in his sleep—are their two wedding rings. They are cold to the touch.

His hands have roughened with calluses over the years, and he has to almost wrestle the ring onto his finger, almost like it knows it doesn’t belong there anymore. He stares at the golden band, and can hardly remember what it had looked like on the young man who had bought it, full of promises and hopes.

The other ring he remembers clearly. Without Ruby, he wasn’t sure if he could have made it through the nerve-wracking process of choosing the brightest Blue Feather, the sparkliest diamond, and the best-fitting band to complement its wearer. Ruby had even let him practice proposing on her; it was fortunate she hadn’t met her future husband yet.

The song—her song—came with little effort. Notes had always come easier to him than words. The music had poured out with all of the love and emotion that flowed through him like a river, strong and constant. It was only when the guitar was propped on one knee did his hands shake, and he wondered whether the song said enough. Then tears started to spill down her cheeks, and he knew it had. His voice had quavered, but by some miracle he had managed to keep his tears in check when he asked for her hand in marriage. But not now.

Now he can taste the salt on his lips as he pulls off his ring and rests it with its mate back in their dusty grave. Then he lifts his golden chain over his head. He lays it down with the rest of the memories he had kept shut away, but this time when he closes the drawer, the memories are at rest. He doesn’t hear the screams anymore. Only her laugh.

Through his red-rimmed eyes, he sees the flower, petals white and fresh, still waiting on the dresser.

A new promise.


	18. Ask Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I had this little idea since the beginning when I was brainstorming for this story, and while it wasn't relevant enough to be a full chapter, I thought I could add it here for fun, as it's referenced in this chapter.
> 
> A few nights ago Muffy had her first encounter with the local homeless man. A fly had been buzzing around for the last half hour. When it landed on the edge of the counter, Muffy was waiting for it with a rolled up magazine. Bam! The fly zipped away. Muffy looked down, and two black eyes peeked from above the counter.
> 
> "Murrey?"
> 
> Her screech shattered a glass.

"Do you like them?"

Muffy blinks. She looks as astonished as he had when he woke up to find the bar "remodeled."

"I didn't know what flowers to choose, so I asked Vesta for one of everything. Think it's too much?" Griffin says, holding a bouquet twice the size of his head.

"No," Muffy says, with a grin a little too large. "I don't think it's too much. If we're lucky, the fragrance can cover up Murrey's stench. We just need a vase. Or two." As she searches in the shelves against the wall, she says, "What made you think of getting flowers?"

"Gustafa suggested it, actually. He gave me one yesterday and I reckoned it was a good idea to, well…" Griffin tries to glance at her from behind the bushel of petals, but there's too many for him to see. "To bring some…color…to the place."

A giggle. "We'll have plenty of that now. Here, put the flowers in this in the meantime."

Griffin lowers the bouquet to see; she had put a basket on the counter. As soon as he sets down the bouquet, he rubs the tingling from his arms. Who knew that flowers could be so heavy?

Muffy pursues her lips as she glances between the bouquet and the two vases she had hunted down. "Perhaps we can divide the flowers to make smaller arrangements… We'll need more vases."

"I'll fetch 'em if you start arranging."

"Deal."

They trade places, Muffy to the counter and Griffin to the shelves. A few spiders scurry away as he opens them, and the dust is so thick it makes him cough. With his shirt bundled over his nose, he roots through some stacks of old magazines and chipped cups he'd swore to throw away…half a decade ago? He salvages the ones with the least amount of cracks. On one side of a cup is a painted white flower, and he remembers the flower still in the glass of water on his nightstand.

"Well, that ain't quite the truth," he murmurs. "'Bout the bouquet, I mean."

"Oh?" she hums. Already she has separated the flowers into piles by color.

"See, I didn't get it for decoration alone. I thought…well, I thought you might like it."

"Of course I do."

"You do? Well…good. Because I that we might—oof!" The shelf rattles after he banged his head on the top. Muffy twists around, her brow pinched in concern. "Are you sure you're feeling well? You're acting rather…queer, today."

"Fine," he mutters, rubbing where he could feel a bruise coming on. He grabs the chipped cups and sets them on the counter.

"Will these work?"

Muffy only spares a glance before nodding and turning back to her flowers. "Yes, they'll do just fine."

"Right. Well…what I meant to say was, I've been thinking…if you'd like, we could go to—"

The door swings open. "There you are, Goldilocks! Am I too early?"

A darkly tanned, young man strides into the bar and plops himself down onto a stool, giving what Griffin could only call a "cheeky" grin.

Muffy smiles. Griffin frowns.

"Not at all, Kai," she says, at the same time that he grumbles, "We're not open yet."

As if he is only tuned to Muffy-frequency, Kai says, "Cool. In that case I'll have a…" He drums his fingers on the counter. "What's good around here?"

"Let's see…the MooMoo Milk is a customer-favorite, but personally I prefer the Cherry Pink."

"One Cherry Pink, then. With a little bit of spice, if you've got some."

Griffin lifts a brow. Cherry pink is named after a sweet fruit for a reason, not a pepper. He looks at Muffy to see if she notices the contradiction, but she's still rearranging the flowers and sneaking glances at the boy with the cheeky grin. Griffin sighs. He gets out a glass.

"So…" Kai leans on the counter. He plucks a tulip by the stem from a pile, and Muffy giggles as he traces its petals down the length of her arm. "We had a lot of fun together the other day, didn't we?"

The other day? Griffin's frown deepens as he pours cherry puree into the glass. Muffy hasn't mentioned this boy before.

"We did. It's been so long since we've seen each other. It was nice to catch up."

'Nice'. Is that…girl code? He grabs out the pumpkin spice he usually dashes on drinks during Autumn; it will have to do.

"Yeah, it was. I thought we could do it again sometime. How does tomorrow night sound?"

His hand jerks; orange spice puffs out into the drink. Tomorrow night! He was going to—

"Do you have something in mind?"

"Oh, I got more than something. How do two tickets to the opera sound?"

"B-but you've always hated the opera!"

"Maybe I just wasn't with the right company." Kai winks, and Griffin can swear his grin turns from cheeky to smarmy in a second. Griffin jerked the bottle down, spewing out more spice, as he waits for Muffy's signal to show this varmint out the door. She knows she can do better than some smooth-talker, good-for-nothing, skirt-chaser—

"Alright, then. Will you pick me up at six?"

"Yeah! That sounds—"

No one knows what it sounds like, because the drink slams on the counter. Kai and Muffy jerk their heads at Griffin as if he had magically appeared from the thick puff of orange spice still settling around the cup.

"Your order," Griffin says curtly.

Kai looks down at the cup coated in powder, then up to Griffin, whose moustache twitches in response.

Muffy glances between them uneasily, but Kai recovers with a smile.

"Right. Thanks, dude." He grabs the drink and chugs it down. The spice barely touches his tongue before his smile contorts; he lurches forward, cheeks as bloated as a chipmunk's. He almost spits it out, but the gasp from Muffy stops him. Her green eyes widen in concern, and Griffin can see him working out whether it was worth it to grin and swallow or spit it out in front of his hostess.

Griffin hopes he picks the latter.

Finally Kai manages to gulp it down, but not without shedding a tear in the process. His grin is crooked and weak on his green face.

"Dude, that's…epic…"


	19. Permission

Permission

Muffy twirls, her golden curls flowing behind her and her red gown swishing at her heels. She falls back onto her bed giggling. She can't remember the last time she had dressed so prettily. It must've been…why, back in the city.

She clicks her high heels together and springs to her feet. She twirls again to watch how the rhinestones on her skirt glitter like dewdrops on a rose petal. Coming to a stop, Muffy tilts her head and surveys her reflection in the full body mirror. Perhaps a darker lipstick... She fetches one from her make-up case and pops off the lid. The lipstick is a dark ruby red that Mama would have fawned over. The color will drive Kai mad. With that delightful thought in mind, Muffy pursues her lips.

Griffin wouldn't like it.

She pauses, the color an inch from her lips.

He's the 'less is more' type. Something more like…a blush-pink gloss? Yes, that would do nicely. If only she could see his expression now, when she's all gussied up, as a night at the opera deserves. Would he start blushing and scratch the tip of his nose like he does when he's embarrassed, or would he just smile in approval, his eyes doing the talking?

She wishes he did more talking recently.

He has been quiet—at least, more so than usual. The patrons could always count on him to lend an ear, but last night he offered little more than "hmm"s and monosyllables. The patrons had shot him worrying looks, despite Muffy's efforts to keep the night flowing and their minds elsewhere.

When closing time came, the patrons took the noise out the door with them, and left behind a silence that Muffy and Griffin would usually appreciate after all the hustle and bustle. But the silence felt different this time, too many words simmering below the surface. She had glanced at Griffin throughout the night, but he never looked up from his work.

"Is something on your mind?" she finally said, and had to repeat herself twice before Griffin blinked up from the glass he was drying.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Are you quite sure? You've been drying the same cup since eleven thirty."

"What time is it now?"

"Midnight."

Griffin blinked at the glass and rag in his grip, as if he had just realized he was holding them. "Oh. Well, would you look at that…"

"If you're tired, perhaps you ought to get some rest. I can finish closing up."

Griffin sets down the glass and rag. "Well…if you're sure."

"I'm sure. Go on, then. Don't let the bedbugs bite."

"Right. Good night."

He's halfway out the door before she blurted, "Actually…I want to ask you. Are you all right with Kai and I going to the opera tomorrow? It will be Wednesday, so you won't be short on hands at the bar, but—"

"It's okay," he interjects, one foot through the door, one foot out, and two eyes fixed on the floor. His hand clenchs the doorframe. "You don't need my permission, Muffy."

"Yes, but if you wanted me to—"

"Good night."

The door closes.

"…Stay…" Muffy murmurs to the empty bar.

Knocking from below jolts her back to the present. Kai's here. She glances at the clock. Late, as always. 

Muffy grabs the pink gloss before she goes. The ruby lipstick is left on her bed, forgotten.


	20. La bohème

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This chapter's title is named after an opera by Giacomo Puccini, and the lyrics from his song, "O soave fanciulla," are used here. Obviously, I DO NOT OWN, nor do I own any of the references of it in this chapter.

La bohème

Muffy swears she will die of anticipation. On the stage below their loge, the character Rodolfo rubs warmth into his beloved Mimì's hands. Their hands stay folded together, but then Rodolfo's friends at the far end of the stage call for him to rejoin their company. Rodolfo slowly tears himself away. He turns back long enough to see the moon bathing Mimi in a white light. He stares at her, stunned, and Muffy is almost bouncing in her seat as she did as a child.

This was her favorite scene. His lips part:

"Oh lovely girl, oh sweet face

bathed in the soft moonlight.

I see you in a dream

I'd dream forever!"

The notes pour from Rodolfo's mouth and are carried as strong and ageless as the wind through the theatre, and for just a moment time reverts itself and Muffy can picture Papa on the stage as Rodolfo, looking every bit an angel as Mama's rich voice joins him in the duet as Mimì. Muffy could never get enough of the story of how Papa and Mama met while playing the famous lovers. They were the new blood in the theatre, and soon, newly married. Mama soared through the opera ladder, while Papa stopped his career to raise Muffy. They went to every one of Mama's performances, until Papa couldn't anymore. Every time she sang about love, Muffy would lean her arms on the ledge of the loge and sigh while Papa would watch with a smile on his face. Oh, the many castles in the sky she thought up in those loges as familiar to her as her bedroom.

Rodolfo and Mimì's duet draws to a close and Muffy's eyes shimmer with tears. A sigh draws her attention away to her escort. Kai had traded his jacket and shirt, stained from years of messy cooking habits, for a slightly wrinkled dress shirt and slacks that showed off his lean figure. His bandana was still knotted around his head, despite Muffy's insistence that it belonged on the beach and not in an opera.

Kai rolls his eyes as Rodolfo and Mimì depart, and for once his mouth is pulled into a frown. From the corner of her eye she can see him fidgeting at a loose strand on his shirt. On stage, merchants in flamboyant outfits sings Muffy's childhood favorite, "Aranci, daterri! Caldi i marroni!"

Muffy leans forward in her seat, her hands grasping the ledge, as she sings along softly in English: "Oranges, dates! Hot chestnuts!"

Tap! Tap! Tap!

Muffy is dragged away from the scents of citruses and roasted nuts to Kai drumming his foot beside her. He's rolling his eyes again. Another sigh. Muffy stops singing. Her gaze falling to the floor, she pulls back from the ledge and folds her hands demurely in her lap.

Griffin wouldn't act like a child, she thinks.

Then blinks. Where had that thought come from? He hasn't crossed her mind she had left for the evening, when he wouldn't even look up from the bottles he was wiping to see her out. She wonders whether he would be fond of the opera. She has only heard him play guitar and old blues; there is no evidence indicating he would like opera.

Yet, without even thinking it through, she knows the answer is yes. Yes, he would.

Mama evoked emotions through the notes that poured from her lips like wine, while Kai always had the exuberance to shine the brightest in a crowd. They were the suns that everyone turned to for brightness but could never be confined or dimmed. Papa and Griffin are the opposite. They are the quiet moons who watch, who listen, and guide but a few. Their souls are the subtle ones, unnoticed next to the bright lights of Mama and Kai, but the quietness lets them hold the weight of everyone around them like a well.

But Muffy knows what happens when those wells can't hold anymore.

Down on the stage Mimì shakes as coughs rack her small frame. Muffy has seen this play enough time to know that the ending never changes.


	21. Repercussions

The bar is closed, but the lights are aglow from the window. Griffin must have left them on for her before he went to bed.

Except when Muffy opens the door, he’s there, bent over the counter with a rag in hand. He scours the counter with it, the heel of his palm digging into the wood. The surface is the shiniest she has ever seen it, and every scratch from years of use stands out like a scar. Behind him, all of the bottles on the shelves are straightened with every label facing front. Not a speck of dust to be found. The door thuds behind Muffy; the noise cuts through the heavy silence.

“You’re up late,” she says.

“Same as you.” His voice is low and level. He doesn’t look up.

“Kai wanted to go to a party after the opera.”

“You couldn’t turn him down?”

“He insisted.”

“’Course he did,” he mutters. “Aren’t you a bit too old for parties?”

Her breath hisses out. His hand stops mid-rotation. He opens his mouth, but the words are already between them like a wall of spears. A purse thumps on the counter an inch from his face; he winces.

“What exactly do you mean ‘too old’?”

He looks up to see Muffy glaring down at him. “I only meant that it’s not safe to party in the middle of the night with a boy you don’t know.”

“I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you.”

Griffin straightens. He wipes his hands on the rag. “My family’s put down roots in Forget-Me-Know. The folks know me and I know them. Can that boy call any place home?”

Muffy flinches. Again, the words that ring with too much truth catches up with Griffin much too late. She’s trembling now, and for a second, he sees her standing out in the rain with nowhere to go. But this time when her glinting eyes meet his, they are steely.

“Kai.” Harsh, acerbic, she spits out the name like a foul taste whereas before she breathed it like sigh. “His name is Kai, not boy, and he wants to see the world. To adventure. There’s no law against that, and as soon as he gets it out of his system, he’ll settle down.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe one day he’ll grow up, but I promise you that day won’t come soon enough for you.”

His voice never rises, but now it’s gruff, pleading for something that she isn’t ready to give. “He’s not good for you, Muffy.”

“You are not the judge of that.” Her hands shake at her side, but her tone is level, almost as quiet as his, with acid seething behind it. “I am a grown woman, and you are not my father. I can do whatever I please.”

She storms past him without a glance back. Griffin closes his eyes and counts the sharp click-clicks of her heels stabbing the floorboards.

The door slams.

His hand shakes, his knuckles white, as Griffin grips the soiled rag to his chest. Soon he hears the thud above him as Muffy slams the door to the attic she calls home. His shoulders tauten. His thumb rubs a jagged scar on the countertop. He clenches the edge of the counter with one hand and with the other he continues his purging of grime. Again and again, he drags the rag in circles over the scarred countertop, until his skin is raw and the feeling in his hands is gone.


	22. Space

Space

 

She is already there when Griffin shuffles into the bar at sunrise in a wrinkled shirt and days-old slacks. Muffy’s dress is ironed, her curls bouncy, and looking as fresh as a flower. But when she looks up from her opened purse, the same dark circles under his eyes are also under hers.

“Good morning,” he says, and the lie rings in the silence. “What are you doing?”

“Going out with Kai.” Her gaze drops. She snaps the purse shut. She doesn’t look at him, she doesn’t pause, and then she’s out the door and he’s alone.

l*l*l*l

Despite the hour, she is already bustling in the kitchen when he finds her.

“Good morning, Griffy! I’ve just made some congee, and my stuffed buns are in the steamer.”

“G’morning, ma’am.” Griffin tries not to grimace as he gingerly lifts himself up onto a stool, but a purse from Ruby’s lips tell him that it had not slipped her notice. She pours him a bowl of rice pudding, and he is thankful when she doesn’t ask questions. If he had to admit how his aching body got to the way it is, he would no doubt earn a scolding.

“Much obliged, ma’am, but I confess I’m not here for food alone.”

“Why, of course not. You come to admire me, yes?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “That, too, but I’ve also got some business matters I want to discuss.”

“Oh, I see.” Ruby frowns. “But so early in the morning?”

“’Fraid so.”

She nods. Pouring herself a bowl of pudding, she settles on the chair opposite of him, waiting for him to start. Except Griffin doesn’t know how. He spoons up a mouthful of pudding. Today the milk has no sweetness and the rice has the exture of paste on his tongue; He knows that Ruby isn’t to blame. Griffin swallows, but the familiar warmth does not spread to his core.

“I don’t suppose you have a room at the inn to spare? I’ll be willing to pay, of course. In full.”

Her eyes flicks to the spoon held limply in his hand. She is slow to nod. “Yes, there is one…and who will occupy it?”

“Muffy.” The name catches in his throat; he coughs. “Muffy’s been staying at Forget-Me-Not for awhile now. She’s been making some friends lately, and I reckon she’ll want to invite them over without worrying ‘bout some ol’ coot sticking his nose in where it don’t belong.”

Ruby shakes her head, her hand reaching up to cup her pudgy cheek. “Oh, Griffy,” she sighs, gazing at him with doleful eyes. “Why do I feel like there’s more to this story?”

“No, ma’am. I only thought she’d like her privacy. Muffy is a grown woman, after all.”

There’s the same low, gruff voice, the same rustle of his moustache, but something is different enough for Ruby to reach across the counter and pat his arm. Griffin pauses, before covering her small hand with his. The touch lasts only a moment or two, no more, before he draws back. But it is enough.

Ruby smiles. “Would you like to stay for tea?”

“We’re still eating breakfast.”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t tea usually come after a meal where you’re from?”

“Yes,” she says. “I’ll make sweet tea.”

Griffin chuckles, but his face falls and the sound dies out. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m heading out to the city today. Some time to clear my head will do me good.”

She pats his arm again. “Do not worry, bǎo bèi. Life works itself out. You just wait and see.”

Griffin almost believes her.


	23. Ships on the Horizon

Ships on the Horizon

Based on the random event in Harvest Moon DS Cute: “The Love Triangle.”

 

He doesn’t notice her until she perches on the edge of the shack. Kai glances up, a grin already in place. She returns it with a slight smile.

“Are you working hard?” she says teasingly, but her voice sounds flat even to her. Kai doesn’t notice.

“Yep, sure am. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you. I’m trying to watch my weight.”

Kai snorts. “I see. Well, tell me if you change your mind. I’ve been trying out a new syrup for the shaved ice and…”

He launches into the conversation. Muffy leans back, swinging her feet. She takes a deep breath. Salt in the breeze, mixed with sugar as Kai preps his workspace. Dark clouds brew overhead, turning the ocean black.

The water is choppy today; the tide smacks the shore. At first it looks like nothing is out at sea, but then Muffy catches a speck of white on the horizon. A ship or a boat? It’s too far away to tell. The ocean bucks like a wild horse trying to knock off its rider, but the vessel just carries on, taking the waves in stride. Muffy watches as little by little it shrinks. She wonders just how far out it will go before it’s vanishes from sight.

“…but the pineapple there doesn’t compare to—hey, are you even listening?”

“Hmm?” Muffy blinks.

Kai frowns. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?”

“Of course I have,” she says, but can’t recall any of the topics he had hurried through. He is always like that, fluctuating like the ocean and never like the lake. The lake that only ripples before returning to its calm state.

Her eyes drift back to the…ship? She decides it’s a ship; it’s much more romantic. Who is steering it? She wonders. Are they going home or leaving it? Who is waiting for them to return? 

Kai opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted when a shrill voice pierces their eardrums.

“Ahh!”

Out of nowhere a girl storms up to the shack. The resemblance between her and Muffy is striking. Her dress is as scarlet as the barmaid’s. A green hairband like Muffy’s black one holds back the girl’s cotton candy locks, as puffy as Muffy’s curls of gold.

“Kai, what are you doing?” A pair of pink lips puckers, set in a heart-shaped face that Muffy sees every time she looks in a mirror. She knows that pout too well; she had perfected the pose when she was far younger than this girl. 

“What? I’m just talking to Muffy.” Kai raises his hands as if that could stop the barrage about to come. Muffy knows better. She turns her gaze to the sea.

“Liar! You two are acting too friendly!”

The boat is the size of a pearl now.

“Hey, hold on—!“

It is fading into the blue, smaller and smaller.

“Don’t interrupt!” —It’s little more than a dot—“I’m not done talking!”

Muffy closes her eyes. Opens them.

The ship is gone. Without a word of goodbye.

As if woken from a dream, she blinks at Kai and the girl. If she had felt enough, Muffy would have tittered at Kai’s baffled expression as the girl whose name she doesn’t even know glowers at him. They remind her of two chickens bickering at each other with no resolution in sight. She is more distantly amused than irritated.

“What? We were just having a friendly chat.” Kai turns to her. “Right, Muffy? It was just a friendly chat.” His chocolate brown eyes are pleading, but they stir no warmth in her.

“What a terrible misunderstanding,” Muffy murmurs. “I should leave.”

She hops off the edge of the shack.

“Wait, what? Hold up!” Kai reaches for her, but his fingertips only skim her arm; this time, she is too far away to catch. His hand hangs in the empty air between them, hesitating, before a sob from the other girl draws his arm back. Her face is already blotchy and tearstained, looking more like a little girl than a young woman.

I was like you once, Muffy thinks. I’m not anymore. Maybe one day you two will grow up. You’ll be perfect for each other.

“What? Jeeze!” She can hear Kai’s exasperated voice, can imagine his eyes darting between her and the girl, but she doesn’t look back as she walks away. 

The ocean has lost its pull.


	24. Letting Go,

Letting Go,

Muffy kicks off her kitten heels, scoops them up, and runs. The gravel digs into her skin with every step, but she doesn't care. For the first time Hugh calls out to her as she speeds past, but she doesn't answer. It would waste breath, and she needs as much as she can.

By the time she reaches the bar, it feels like a knife is stabbing between her ribcage, and she dreads to see the state her hair and feet are in, but none of that matters; she throws open the door.

"Griffin, I need to talk to—" the words rush out in a breath—then stop, choking in her throat.

Griffin is standing in the middle of the bar. With a guitar case. On Thursday. "Sorry, it'll have to wait a bit," he says. "I'm heading out. Should be back by midnight."

Muffy blinks, bewildered. The only time Griffin has a guitar case is when he goes to the city on Wednesdays.

"B-b-but it's Thursday," she stammers, as if pointing out the aberrance could stop him long enough for him to hear the pounding in her chest that is louder than anything she could say.

"It is," he says but doesn't hear. "I'm closing the bar today for a special occasion."

"What occasion?"

Griffin looks away, his finger gone to scratch the tip of his nose. Something inside of Muffy deadens. "I talked to Ruby. She agreed to give you a room at her inn. It hasn't seen a lick of life in years, so she's giving it away for nothing. I thought I'd go and let yourself get settled."

He clears his throat. A silence descends as he waits for her reply, but it feels like all the words in her had been extinguished. She knows what questions she should ask, what she is expected to say, but they have all been said before, and all her wishing has never made them stay.

Not once.

Her gaze drops to her hands knotted in front of her, the knuckles white. They won't stop trembling. She doesn't look up when his boots shuffle on the floorboards.

The knob creaks when his calloused hand turns it. A breath of hot air drifts in, brushing her skin; she shivers.

"Why?"

The word is barely a whisper, but it stops the shuffle of his boots like it had been a gunshot. She turns and opens her eyes, pinning him to the doorway. His face is cast in shadow from the light pouring behind him, but she knows he won't meet her eyes, knows it as she knows how Rodolfo is left alone at the end of La bohème.

"It's better this way," he mutters.

Then he's out the door.

And Muffy is left behind. Again.

She closes her eyes, her lashes trappings the tears before they can fall. She's had enough practice that not a single drop slips out.

She doesn't belong here.

The thought crashes down on her like a waterfall of ice.

She should move. She should pack. But her limbs are frozen.

He doesn't want her. They never do.

She keeps her eyes shut, but she can still see it playing over and over again.

The door opening. The door closing. And her waiting.

Always waiting…


	25. And In the Rain

And In the Rain

When Muffy finally unfreezes, she doesn't pack. She doesn't go to her room. Instead, she goes out the door.

A part of her had thought she would see Griffin standing outside, waiting to apologize, to listen, to stay, but that hope died as soon as she steps out the doorway and he is nowhere in sight. The heat had abated and gray clouds loom overhead, but she registers none of it. As if her body is acting of its own accord, her feet slip into her sandals and she starts to wander with no destination or plan in mind.

Only until she hears the babbling of the water does she blink and find herself at the bridge. The halfway point to the bar and the path to the city. The halfway point to the home she is losing and to the friend she has lost. Below her feet, the river flows to the ocean ahead, the water scintillating like stars.

Stars…the one constant in her life that she can think about and still smile.

Before Muffy could even walk, she had traveled the world with her parents, visiting places that people dreamed their whole lives of seeing. Paris, Italy, New York, and London, to name a few. She spent countless hours gazing down from her perch in a plane or skyscraper to the cities hundreds of feet away. A cool beauty radiated from the strings of lights, like looking at precious stones, but numbness in her chest stopped her from feeling anything more than detached appreciation.

One time when she curled into the crook of Papa's arm as he tucked her into bed, he told her a bedtime story about people long ago who had grown envious of the night's beauty. They decided to reap the stars from the sky and scatter them on the earth as farmers do with rows of crops. A star-farm, he jested, except these stars felt unnatural, almost sorrowful, because they were not designed to be cultivated like corn or cows. Some people were content with their civilized star-farms, but others missed those in the sky. The few that hadn't vanished from sight reminded the people of what they had replaced the real stars for.

Mama never cared. So long as she had an adoring audience and a string full of pearls, she never cared about the star's absence or the little girl left to wander the theater alone for hours when her mama was too busy entertaining a crowd and her papa too sick to leave their hotel room. Mama never cared when Papa's ocean-green eyes glazed over and he no longer recognized the little girl clinging to his side, her small hands balled up in his shirt soaked in sweat and her voice drowning in tears, sobbing the same words, over and over, like a prayer: "Please don't leave me, Papa. Please don't leave me."

Mama had to pry her away, screaming, to the next flight. The next show.

The nurses told them after they had come back dressed in black that in a moment of clarity, Papa had asked to see the stars from his window. Then the moment was gone, and he fell asleep. They couldn't wake him up. And Muffy wasn't there to hold his hand, like he had all those years for her.

Papa often wondered what it would be like to see the world centuries ago, with the only lights being the ones in the sky and not the ones that ward off the night.

Muffy couldn't say.

At some point it had started to rain. Raindrops pour down, plopping into the now black waters. In seconds the rain has soaked through her clothes. She doesn't feel it.

She wonders, what would Papa think if he saw her now? Like Mama, she has chased the fraud and lost what is real.


	26. Holding On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harvest Moon, and a scene in Harvest Moon: Another Wonderful Life inspired the ending dialogue.

Holding On

Griffin said he'd be back by midnight. And he'd be damned if he breaks his promise. Not that Muffy would know. She would be fast asleep in a warm bed at Ruby's by now, her dreams sweetened by the pitter-patter of rain rather than his guitar.

No, not rain. That's an understatement. It is pouring, as if the Harvest Goddess is weeping for the sorrows of her people.

The rain pours down in streaks of gray, dulling the world. If it weren't for the moon being in its brightest phase, he would have had to wait until the storm passed to make it home. As it is, Griffin had to leave his guitar with his friends so the downpour wouldn't warp the wood.

His only guide is the years of treading the same path until the memory is as ingrained into him as the Blue Bar. His soul knows even if his mind does not the moment he leaves the hills and sets foot in the valley. The downward slope, the rich soil, the smell of Vesta's crops underneath the scent of rain.

He is home.

But he feels no relief.

What is he coming home to? Small talk with regulars, bottles of wine he never drinks, and his guitar his only company when the sign outside reads CLOSED. At one time it was enough.

That was before he was shown what could be, what had been. In only a handful of seasons, his sleepy bar metamorphosed into a home for everyone in the valley; the undisturbed quiet was filled with the music of life; and the solitude of his guitar was exchanged for more company than he ever thought he needed until he begun to miss it.

Griffin slows, then stops. A cold settles deep in him, deeper than his bones. As if the sun had been buried beneath the clouds and he would never feel warmth again.

He is tired. So tired. As if he could droop like a spent flower until his cold body merged with the earth.

But that is a fantasy, and this—this is reality.

His hand passes over his eyes with a sigh—and he gasps. On the bridge, obscured by the distance and rain, is a blotch of red. It's striking in the gray world. Griffin tenses like a deer caught in the headlights. Slowly the red dot becomes bigger, manifesting pale limbs and a golden waterfall of tresses.

Griffin is a practical man, a businessman, but his heartbeat pounds like he is seeing a ghost, and he might as well be. It is happening again. The rainy night, the hazy light, and the young woman with green eyes like the sea that held him in place and still haven't let go.

Griffin runs to her. He doesn't even register the mud splashing on his boots and the rain slicking his hair down his face like ink strokes. He is already shrugging off his jacket before he reaches her, and throws it over that cursed camisole when he does. Those emerald eyes widen at his approach, those pink lips parting in surprise, but for once the reticence that had bound his voice before is gone.

"This is foolish, Muffy. Damn foolish!" he says—yells—instinctively. "You trying to catch your death of cold? What're you doing here?"

His hands are on her shoulders, steering her back to town—but she digs her heels into the dirt.

"I'm waiting for you."

She spins around, almost slipping in the mud, but Griffin is already there, steadying her. They're face to face, her hands knotted in the fabric of his shirt and his arms locked around hers. The fragrance of his perfume blends with the aroma of the first rain, dizzying his senses.

"W-w-what do you mean?" he stammers.

"It means everything," she breathes. "It means I'm tired of waiting. My entire life I've waited for the wrong person, the wrong man, to come and rescue me like some damsel in a fairytale, and when I finally find the real knight, I was foolish enough to chase the fraud."

The image of a purple bandana and a cocky grin flashes in his mind, but melts away when her soft hand cups his cheek.

"But I'm not anymore," she whispers, holding his gaze. His hand moves hesitantly over hers, intertwining their fingers.

"How long have you been here?" Waiting for me. The words linger in the air, unspoken.

"Since you left." Since you opened the door.

"I'm sorry. Sorry for making you wait so long."

In her emerald eyes he reads her forgiveness—and her apology. I'm sorry I made you wait, too.

The anger—the worry—drains away, but Griffin's fear lingers, and with it the struggle to find the words he had buried in a drawer. But she waits until he murmurs, slowly, "I...I never told you…I was married once."

"I know. I found the rings in your dresser when you asked me to find the menus."

He gapes, and Muffy smiles softly, her fingertips tracing the pendant of his necklace.

"And you still want me?" he says. "An old coot that can't hold anything but a glass of alcohol without losing it?"

"Just think how convenient it will be when we fight."

This time he laughs, not just a twitch of the moustache, but her favorite laugh that only she can draw out. "And you still want me?" she whispers. "A spoiled brat who has lousy taste in men?"

"So long as I'm part of that lousy taste, I'm satisfied."

She smiles, and he brushes a finger over her dimples, like little crescents. "Then I say we're a match."

He leans down at the moment that she rises to meet him, pressing her lips against his. They breathe in the fragrance of flowers, the earth, the petrichor. They shiver, but not from the cold.

They don't know how long they embrace, but when they finally pull back, in need of more than the scent of nature to breathe, the rain's song is gone, replaced with the quiet after the storm. The river tinkling below them shimmers from the full moon overhead. Above the moon is stars spread out in a black canvas and a single white bow.

She glances up, the moonbow shining in her eyes. The light makes her fair skin look luminescent, and her eyelashes are dewed with raindrops.

She exhales, her breath a white puff dissipating in the air. Griffin pulls his jacket tighter around her.

"It looks like you could use a hot drink, ma'am. It's awfully cold out here."

She doesn't know if he purposefully alluded to the first time they met, but the memory makes her laugh, regardless. "Just remember the sprinkles." She looks away from the sky. Her gaze rests on him, and she smiles. "I always cheer up when I see your face."

"I reckon that's a good thing, since you'll be seeing a lot of this mug from now on." Griffin chuckles.

"Yes, I suppose I will." She throws the jacket over the both of them, and then leans into his side, slipping her hand into his.

"Come on. Let's go home."

And so they do.


End file.
